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THE
THREE
MUSKETEERS

Alexandre Dumas

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Chapter 1 The Three Presents of M. D’Artagnan, the Father

Chapter 2 The Antechamber of M. de Treville

Chapter 3 The Audience

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

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

Chapter 6 His Majesty King Louis the Thirteenth

Chapter 7 The Domestic Manners of the Musketeers

Chapter 8 The Court Intrigue

Chapter 9 D’Artagnan Begins to Show Himself

Chapter 10 A Mousetrap of the Seventeenth Century

Chapter 11 The Intrigue Becomes Confused

Chapter 12 George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham

Chapter 13 Monsieur Bonancieux

Chapter 14 The Man of Meung

Chapter 15 Civilians and Soldiers

Chapter 16 In which the Keeper of the Seals, Séguier, looked more than once after the bell, that he might ring it as he had been used to do

Chapter 17 The Bonancieux Household

Chapter 18 The Lover and the Husband

Chapter 19 The Plan of the Campaign

Chapter 20 The Journey

Chapter 21 The Countess de Winter

Chapter 22 The Ballet of “The Merlaison”

Chapter 23 The Appointment

Chapter 24 The Pavilion

Chapter 25 Porthos

Chapter 26 The Thesis of Aramis

Chapter 27 The Wife of Athos

Chapter 28 The Return

Chapter 29 The Hunt after Equipments

Chapter 30 “My Lady”

Chapter 31 English and French

Chapter 32 An Attorney’s Dinner

Chapter 33 Maid and Mistress

Chapter 34 Concerning the Equipments of Aramis and Porthos

Chapter 35 All Cats are alike Gray in the Dark

Chapter 36 The Dream of Vengeance

Chapter 37 The Lady’s Secret

Chapter 38 How, without disturbing himself, Athos obtained His Equipment

Chapter 39 A Charming Vision

Chapter 40 A Terrible Vision

Chapter 41 The Siege of La Rochelle

Chapter 42 The Wine of Anjou

Chapter 43 The Red Dove-Cot Tavern

Chapter 44 The Utility of Stove Funnels

Chapter 45 A Conjugal Scene

Chapter 46 The Bastion of St. Gervais

Chapter 47 The Council of the Musketeers

Chapter 48 A Family Affair

Chapter 49 Fatality

Chapter 50 A Chat between a Brother and Sister

Chapter 51 The Officer

Chapter 52 The First Day of Imprisonment

Chapter 53 The Second Day of Imprisonment

Chapter 54 The Third Day of Imprisonment

Chapter 55 The Fourth Day of Imprisonment

Chapter 56 The Fifth Day of Imprisonment

Chapter 57 An Event in Classical Tragedy

Chapter 58 The Escape

Chapter 59 What happened at Portsmouth on the Twenty-third of August, 1628

Chapter 60 In France

Chapter 61 The Carmelite Convent of Bethune

Chapter 62 Two Kinds of Demons

Chapter 63 A Drop of Water

Chapter 64 The Man in the Red Cloak

Chapter 65 The Judgment

Chapter 66 The Execution

Chapter 67 A Message from the Cardinal

The Epilogue

Classic Literature: Words and Phrases Adapted from the Collins English Dictionary

About the Author

Author’s Preface

History of Collins

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1 The Three Presents of M. D’Artagnan, the Father

On the first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the small town of Meung, the birthplace of the author of the “Romance of the Rose,” appeared to be in a state of revolution, as complete as if the Huguenots were come to make a second siege of La Rochelle. Many of the townsmen, observing the flight along the high street, of women who left their children to squall at the doorsteps, hastened to don their armour, and, fortifying their courage, which was inclined to fail, with a musket or a partisan, proceeded towards the inn of the Jolly Miller, to which a vast and accumulating mob was hastening with intense curiosity.

At that period alarms were frequent, and few days passed without some bourg or other registering in its archives an event of this description. There were the nobles, who made war on each other; there was the king, who made war on the cardinal; there was the Spaniard, who made war on the king; then, besides these wars, concealed or overt, secret or public, there were bandits, mendicants, Huguenots, wolves, and lackeys, who made war on the whole world. The townsmen always armed themselves against the bandits, the wolves, and the lacqueys; frequently against the nobles and the Huguenots; sometimes against the king; but never against the cardinal or the Spaniard. From this custom, therefore, it arose, that on the aforesaid first Monday in the month of April, 1625, the burghers, hearing a noise, and seeing neither the yellow and red flag, nor the livery of the Duke of Richelieu, rushed towards the inn of the Jolly Miller. Having reached it, every one could see and understand the cause of this alarm. A young man—

But let us trace his portrait with one stroke of the pen. Fancy to yourself Don Quixote at eighteen—Don Quixote peeled, without his coat of mail or greaves—Don Quixote clothed in a woollen doublet, whose blue colour was changed to an undyable shade, a shade between the lees of wine and a cerulean blue. The countenance long and brown; the cheek-bones high, denoting acuteness; the muscles of the jaw enormously developed—an infallible mark by which a Gascon may be recognised, even without the cap, and our youth wore a cap, adorned with a sort of feather; the eye full and intelligent; the nose hooked, but finely formed; the whole figure too large for a youth, yet too small for an adult; an inexperienced eye would have taken him for the son of a farmer on a journey, had it not been for the long sword, which, hanging from a leathern belt, banged against the heels of its owner whilst he was walking, and against the rough coat of his steed when he was mounted;—for our youth had a steed, and this steed was at the same time so remarkable as to attract observation. It was a Beaunese sheltie, of about twelve or fourteen years of age, yellow as an orange, without any hair on its tail, but abundance of galls on its legs, and which, whilst carrying its head lower than its knees, making the application of a martingale unnecessary, yet managed gallantly its eight leagues a day. Unfortunately, these useful qualities of the steed were so well concealed under its strange coat and eccentric gait, that at a time when every one knew something of horses, the apparition of the aforesaid sheltie at Meung, which it had entered about a quarter of an hour before, by the gate of Beaugency, produced a somewhat unfavourable sensation or impression, which extended even to its master. And this impression was the more painful to young d’Artagnan (for that was the name of the Don Quixote of this second Rozinante), that he could not conceal from himself the ridiculous light in which he, albeit so good a horseman, was placed by such a steed. He had, therefore, sighed deeply when he accepted the gift from M. d’Artagnan, his father: he knew that such a beast was worth about twenty francs. It is true that the words which accompanied the present were above price.

“My son,” said the Gascon gentleman, in that pure Beaunese patois or dialect, which Henry IV. could never entirely shake off—“my son, this horse was born in the paternal homestead about thirteen years ago, and has remained in it ever since, which ought to make you regard it with affection. Never sell it; let it die honourably of old age, and in tranquillity; and should you make a campaign with it, take as much care of it as you would of an old servant. At the court, if you should ever have the honour to be presented—an honour, however, to which your long line of noble ancestors entitles you—support with dignity the name of gentleman, which has been honourably borne by your ancestors, for the sake of you and yours, for more than 500 years. Never submit quietly to the slightest indignity, except it proceed from the cardinal or the king. It is by his courage—mark this well—it is by his courage alone, that a gentleman makes his way nowadays. Whoever hesitates one moment, lets perhaps that chance escape him, which fortune, for that moment alone, has offered him. You are young, and ought to be brave, for two reasons: the first, because you are a Gascon; the second, because you are my son. Have no fear of many imbroglios, and look about for adventures. You have been taught to handle the sword; you have muscles of iron, a wrist like steel; fight whenever you can, the more so because duels are forbidden, and consequently it requires twice as much courage to fight. I have to give you but fifteen crowns, my son, besides the horse, and the advice which you have heard. Your mother will add to them the recipe for a certain balsam, which she received from a Bohemian woman, and which has the miraculous power of curing every wound which has fallen short of the heart. Take advantage of all, and live long and happily. I have only one word more to add, and it is the offer of an example: not my own, for I have never been at court; I have only served in the religious wars as a volunteer. I wish to speak to you of M. de Treville, once my neighbour, who has had the honour of playing, whilst a boy, with our king, Louis XIII., whom God preserve. Sometimes their play turned to battles, and in these battles the king did not always conquer; yet his conquests by M. de Treville imbued him with a great deal of esteem and friendship for him. Afterwards, M. de Treville fought other battles; indeed, merely during his journey to Paris, he fought five times; from the death of the late monarch, to the majority of the young king, he has fought seven times, without reckoning campaigns and sieges; and since that majority till now, perhaps a hundred times! And yet, in spite of edicts, ordinances, and writs, behold him now captain of the Musketeers; that is, chief of a legion of Caesars, upon whom the king mainly depends, and who are feared by the cardinal, who, as everyone knows, is not easily alarmed. Moreover, M. de Treville gains ten thousand crowns a year, and therefore is a man of consequence. He began the world as you do. Go to him with this letter, and let your conduct be regulated by him, that you may meet with the same results.”

Hereupon M. d’Artagnan, the father, girded his own sword upon his son, tenderly kissed him on either cheek, and gave him his blessing. Leaving the paternal chamber, the young man found his mother waiting with the famous recipe, which, from the advice he had just received, it seemed very probable that he would require to use pretty often. The adieus were longer and more tender on this side than on the other; not but that M. d’Artagnan loved his son, who was his only child, but that M. d’Artagnan was a man who would have considered it unworthy of himself to give way to any sentiment; whilst Madame d’Artagnan was a woman, and, what is more, a mother. She wept much; and, to the credit of M. d’Artagnan the younger, we may as well say that, whatever efforts he made to remain firm, as became the future Musketeer, nature gained the day, and he shed many tears, some of which he had great difficulty in concealing.

Our youth took his way the same day, furnished with the three paternal gifts, which were, as we have said, the fifteen crowns, the steed, and the letter to M. de Treville. As may be well imagined, the advice was thrown into the bargain. With such a vade mecum, d’Artagnan found himself, morally and physically, the counterpart of the hero of Cervantes, to whom we so happily compared him, when our duty as his historian obliged us to draw his portrait. Don Quixote took windmills for giants, and sheep for armies; d’Artagnan considered every smile an insult, and even a look a provocation. Therefore, his fist was doubled from Tarbes to Meung; and, from one cause or another, his hand was on the pommel of his sword ten times a day. However, the fist did not descend upon any jaw, nor did the sword leave its scabbard. It was not that the unlucky yellow sheltie did not excite many a smile on the countenances of passers-by; but as beside the said yellow sheltie clashed a sword of respectable length, and above the sword glistened an eye rather stern than fierce, the wayfarers repressed their mirth, or, if their mirth surpassed their prudence, they took care only to laugh on one side of their faces, like the ancient masques. D’Artagnan, therefore, remained dignified and uninterrupted in his susceptibility, even to this fatal town of Meung. But there, when he dismounted at the door of the Jolly Miller, without any one, either landlord, waiter, or hostler, coming to hold the stirrup of his horse, d’Artagnan perceived at the open window of a room, on the ground-floor, a gentleman of distinguished air and handsome figure, although with a countenance slightly grim, conversing with two persons who appeared to listen to him with deference. D’Artagnan naturally thought, according to his usual custom, that they were talking about him, and listened accordingly. This time, however, he was partly correct: he was not the subject of conversation, but his horse was. The gentleman appeared to be enumerating to his hearers all his qualities; and since, as I have said, his hearers appeared to pay him great deference, they every moment laughed heartily.

Now, since even the slightest smile was sufficient to rouse the anger of our youth, we may well imagine what effect such unbounded mirth was likely to produce upon him. Nevertheless, d’Artagnan wished first to examine the countenance of the impertinent fellow who thus laughed at him. He therefore fixed his stern look upon the stranger, and saw a man from forty to forty-five years of age, with eyes black and piercing, complexion pale, nose strongly-marked, and moustache black and carefully trimmed. He was attired in a violet-coloured doublet and breeches, with points of the same colour, with no other ornament than the sleeves through which the shirt passed. This doublet and these breeches, though new, displayed divers wrinkles and creases, as if they had been for some time packed up in a portmanteau. D’Artagnan made these observations with the rapidity of a most minute observer, and doubtless with an instinct which told him that this unknown was to have a vast influence on his future life.

At the very moment that d’Artagnan fixed his eyes upon the gentleman with the violet doublet, that individual made one of his wisest and most profound remarks upon the Beaunese sheltie. His two auditors roared with laughter, and he himself, contrary to his usual custom, permitted a sort of sickly smile to wander over his countenance. This time there was no room for doubt. D’Artagnan was really insulted. Being convinced of this, he pulled his cap over his eyes, and trying to imitate the courtly airs which he had seen among some chance Gascon nobility in their provincial visits, he placed one hand on the guard of his sword, and the other on his hip. Unfortunately, the nearer he advanced, the more angry he grew, so that instead of the high and dignified language which he had prepared as the prelude to his challenge, he found nothing at the tip of his tongue but a rough personality, which he accompanied with a furious gesture.

“Hollo, sir!” he cried; “you, sir, who hide yourself behind the shutter—yes, you! tell me what you are laughing at, and we will laugh together.”

The gentleman slowly turned his eyes from the steed to his rider, as if it required some time to comprehend that these strange reproaches were addressed to himself; then, when he could no longer doubt it, he slightly knit his brows, and, after a pretty long pause, with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to describe, answered d’Artagnan, “I am not speaking to you, sir.”

“But I am speaking to you,” cried the young man, exasperated by this mixture of insolence and good manners—this polite contempt.

The unknown regarded him yet a moment with a slight smile, and then leaving the window, slowly sauntered out of the inn, and stationed himself opposite the horse, at two paces from d’Artagnan. His calm face and jeering aspect redoubled the mirth of his companions, who still remained at the window. D’Artagnan, seeing him come out, drew his sword a foot out of its scabbard.

“This horse decidedly is, or rather has been, a buttercup,” continued the unknown, pursuing his remarks, and addressing his auditors at the window, without appearing to notice the exasperation of d’Artagnan, who, nevertheless, swelled and strutted between them; “it is of a colour,” he continued, “well known in botany, but as yet very rare amongst horses.”

“A man may laugh at a horse, who would not dare to laugh at its master,” cried the disciple of Treville with fury.

“I do not often laugh, sir,” answered the unknown, “as you may yourself discover by the expression of my countenance; but yet I mean to preserve the right of laughing when I please.”

“And I,” roared out d’Artagnan, “do not permit any one to laugh when I do not please.”

“Really, sir!” continued the unknown, more quietly than ever; “well, that is sound sense;” and turning on his heel, he essayed to re-enter the inn by the front door, opposite which d’Artagnan, on arriving, had observed a horse ready saddled.

But d’Artagnan was not the man to let any one who had had the insolence to mock him thus escape; he therefore drew his sword and pursued him, exclaiming, “Turn, turn, Master Jester, that I may not strike you behind!”

“Strike me!” said the other, quickly turning round, and regarding the youth with as much astonishment as contempt; “go along with you, my dear boy; you are mad.” Then, in a low voice, as if he were speaking to himself, he added, “It is annoying: what a prize for his majesty, who is everywhere seeking fire-eaters to recruit his guards.”

He had scarcely finished, when d’Artagnan made such a furious thrust at him, that, had he not jumped back briskly, it is probable the jest would have been his last. Perceiving now, however, that the affair was beyond a joke, the unknown drew his sword, saluted his adversary, and gravely put himself on guard; but at the same moment his two auditors, accompanied by the host, fell pell-mell upon d’Artagnan, with sticks, shovels, and tongs. This caused such a complete diversion of the attack, that, whilst d’Artagnan himself turned to face this shower of blows, his opponent put up his sword with the same calm as before, and, from an actor, became a spectator of the combat—a character which he supported with the same imperturbability, yet all the time muttering, “Plague upon these Gascons! Put him on his orange-coloured horse, and let him go.”

“Not before I have slain you, you coward!” cried d’Artagnan, all the time making the best resistance he could, and not yielding one step to his three opponents, who showered their blows upon him.

“Yet another gasconade!” murmured the gentleman; “upon my word these Gascons are incorrigible; keep up the dance, since he actually wishes it; when he is tired he will say that he has had enough.”

But the stranger did not yet know with what a stubborn personage he had to deal. D’Artagnan was not the man ever to sue for quarter. The contest therefore continued for some moments longer, until at last, completely worn out, d’Artagnan dropped his sword, which was broken in two by a blow from a stick, while at the same instant another blow, which cut open his forehead, stretched him on the ground almost senseless.

It was now that all the burghers hastened to the scene of action. Fearing a disturbance, the landlord, assisted by his servants, carried the wounded man into the kitchen, where some care was given him. As for the stranger, he returned to the window, and viewed the crowd with evident marks of impatience, seeming rather annoyed at their refusal to go away.

“Well, how is that madman now?” said he, turning, and addressing the host, who came to inquire in what state his guest was.

“Is your excellency safe and well?” demanded the host.

“Yes, perfectly so, mine host; but I wish to know what is become of this youth.”

“He is better,” replied the host; “but he was quite senseless.”

“Indeed!” said the gentleman.

“But before he quite lost his senses, he rallied all his strength to challenge and defy you,” added the landlord.

“Well, this young fellow is the very devil himself,” said the gentleman.

“Oh, no, your excellency, oh, no,” replied the host, with a contemptuous grin, “he is not the devil, for while he was senseless we rummaged his outfit, and in his bundle we found but one shirt, and in his pocket only twelve crowns, which fact, however, did not prevent his saying, just before he fainted, that, had this happened in Paris, you should quickly have repented it, but as it has taken place here you will not have to repent it until later.”

“Therefore,” coolly observed the stranger, “he doubtless is a prince of the blood in disguise.”

“I give you this information, sir,” said the host, “that you may keep yourself on your guard.”

“And did he not name any one in his anger?”

“Yes, he slapped his pocket, and said, ‘We shall see what M. de Treville will say to this insult offered to his protege.’”

“M. de Treville?” said the unknown, becoming more attentive; “he slapped his pocket, and mentioned the name of M. de Treville?—Let us see, my good host: whilst this young man was senseless, you did not fail, I am sure, to examine that pocket: what did it contain?”

“A letter, addressed to M. de Treville, captain of the Musketeers.”

“Really?”

“Just as I have the honour to tell your excellency,” said the host.

The latter, who had no great penetration, did not remark the expression which these words brought upon the countenance of the stranger, who now left the windowsill, on which his elbow had rested, and frowned like a man disturbed all of a sudden.

“The devil!” muttered he between his teeth; “could Treville have sent this Gascon? He is very young; but a thrust of a sword is a thrust of a sword, whatever may be the age of him that gives it, and one distrusts a boy less than an oldster; a slight obstacle is sufficient to thwart a project.” And the stranger fell into a reverie which lasted some minutes. “Come, mine host,” at length he said, “will you not rid me of this madman? I cannot conscientiously kill him, and yet,” he added with a menacing air, “he much annoys me. Where is he?”

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

“Are his clothes and his bag with him? Has he taken off his doublet?”

“On the contrary, they are below in the kitchen,” said the host; “but since this young madman annoys you—”

“Doubtless; he causes a disturbance in your inn, which no respectable people can bear. Go to your room, make out my bill, and give orders to my servants.”

“What, sir, must you be off?”

“Yes. I ordered you to saddle my horse; have I not been obeyed?”

“Yes; and your excellency may see your horse standing under the grand entrance, quite ready for the road.”

“Very well; then do as I have ordered.”

“Heyday!” said the host to himself; “can he be afraid of this young boy?” But a commanding look from the stranger cut him short; he humbly bowed, and left the apartment.

“My lady must not see this strange fellow,” said the stranger; “as she is already late, she must soon pass. I had better mount my horse and go to meet her. If I could only just learn the contents of that letter addressed to Treville.” And thus muttering, the unknown descended to the kitchen.

In the meantime, the landlord, who doubted not that this youth’s presence drove the stranger from his inn, had gone to his wife’s chamber, and found that d’Artagnan had regained consciousness. Then, whilst he made him comprehend that the police might be severe on him for having attacked a great lord (for, according to the host’s idea, the stranger could be nothing less than a great lord), he persuaded him, in spite of his weakness, to resume his journey.

D’Artagnan, half stunned, without doublet, his head completely bandaged, arose, and, pushed out by the host, began to descend the stairs; but on reaching the kitchen, the first object he saw was his opponent, who was quietly talking at the door of a heavy carriage, drawn by two large Norman horses. The person with whom he conversed was a woman of from twenty to twenty-two years of age, whose head appeared, through the window of the carriage, like a picture in a frame. We have already said how rapidly d’Artagnan caught the expression of a countenance; he saw, therefore, at the first glance, that the lady was young and attractive. Now, this beauty was the more striking to him, as it was completely different from that of his own southern country. She was a pale, fair person, with long curling hair falling on her shoulders, large blue languishing eyes, rosy lips, and alabaster hands. She conversed with the unknown with great vivacity.

“So, his eminence commands me—” said she.

“To return immediately to England, and apprise him, with all speed, whether the duke has left London,” said the unknown.

“And as to my other instructions?” demanded the fair traveller.

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

“Good; and you? What are you going to do?”

“I return to Paris.”

“Without chastising this insolent boy?” demanded the lady.

The unknown was about to reply, but ere he could do so, d’Artagnan, who had heard every word, rushed to the doorway. “It is that insolent boy,” he cried, “who chastises others, and I hope that this time he who deserves chastisement will not escape him.”

“Will not escape him?” echoed the unknown, knitting his brows.

“No, in the presence of a woman you would hesitate to fly, I presume.”

“Consider,” said the lady, seeing the gentleman place his hand to his sword, “consider that the slightest delay might ruin all.”

“You are right,” said the gentleman; “you go your way, and I will go mine;” and, saluting the lady with a bow, he got into the saddle, whilst the coachman whipped his horses. The lady and gentleman therefore went off at a gallop towards the opposite ends of the street.

“Hollo! your bill!” shouted mine host, whose affection for the traveller was changed to the most profound contempt when he saw him departing without paying.

“Pay, rascal,” cried the traveller, as he galloped off, to his valet, who threw three or four pieces of silver at the feet of the landlord, and set off at full speed the way his master went.

“Oh, coward! wretch! false-hearted gentleman!” cried d’Artagnan, rushing after the valet. But he was still too feeble from his wounds to bear such an effort. Scarcely had he gone ten paces, before his ears tingled, a vertigo seized him, a cloud passed before his eyes, and he fell down in the street, with a final cry of “Coward! coward! coward!”

“He is a sad coward verily,” murmured the host, who now, approaching d’Artagnan, endeavoured to soothe him by this flattery, as the heron in the fable her friend the snail.

“Yes, a sad coward,” murmured d’Artagnan; “but she is beautiful.”

“Who is she?” said the landlord.

“My lady!” murmured d’Artagnan, and again fainted away.

“Never mind,” said the host; “although I have lost two, at any rate I have secured this one, whom I am sure of keeping for some days; at all events, I shall gain eleven crowns.”

It must be borne in mind that eleven crowns was the exact sum which remained in d’Artagnan’s purse; and the host had reckoned upon eleven days’ illness, at a crown a day. On this point, however, he reckoned without his guest. The following day d’Artagnan left his couch, went down to the kitchen, and, besides certain ingredients, the names of which have not descended to posterity, demanded some wine, oil, and rosemary, which, with his mother’s recipe in his hand, he compounded into a salve, wherewith he anointed his numerous wounds, renewing his plasters himself, and not allowing the interposition of any leech.

Thanks, no doubt, to the Bohemian salve, and perhaps also to the absence of the leech, d’Artagnan found himself on foot in the evening, and almost cured by the next day. But at the moment he was paying for this wine, oil, and rosemary, the sole expense he had incurred (for he had been completely abstinent, whilst, on the contrary, if one believed the hostler, the yellow horse had eaten three times as many oats as one would have supposed possible from his size), d’Artagnan found nothing in his pocket but his little purse, with its eleven crowns. As for the letter to M. de Treville, that was gone. The young man began by looking very patiently for this letter, turning out and rummaging his pockets and fobs twenty times, rummaging his valise again and again, and opening and shutting his purse; but when he was quite convinced that the letter was not to be found, he gave full vent to another fit of rage in a manner which was like to make necessary a second decoction of wine and spiced oil. For, upon beholding this young scatter-brain raging, and threatening to destroy everything in his establishment, if the letter were not found, the host had already seized upon a spit, his wife upon the handle of a broom, and the servants upon the same weapons they had wielded the evening before.

“My letter of introduction!” cried d’Artagnan, “my letter of introduction! or, by St. Denis, I will spit you all like so many ortolans.”

One circumstance prevented the youth from accomplishing his threat, which was, that his sword, as we have said, had unfortunately been broken in two in the first struggle—a mischance he had entirely forgotten; consequently, when d’Artagnan went to draw it in earnest, he found himself armed only with the stump, about eight or ten inches long, which the host had carefully thrust into the scabbard. As for the rest of the blade, the cook had adroitly set it aside for a larding-pin. And yet it is probable that this deception would not have stopped our fiery youth, had not the host reflected that the demand which his guest made was perfectly just.

“But after all,” said he, lowering his spit, “where is this letter?”

“Yes, where is this letter?” roared d’Artagnan; “and let me tell you that this letter is for M. de Treville, and that it must be found, otherwise M. de Treville will know to have it found—I’ll answer for it!”

This threat completely frightened mine host. Next to the king and the cardinal, M. de Treville was the man whose name was most frequently in the mouths of the military, and indeed of the citizens. There was certainly, Father Joseph; but his name was never mentioned except in an undertone; so great was the terror which his gray eminence, as the familiar of the cardinal was called, inspired. Therefore, throwing away his spit, and ordering his wife to do the same with her broom-handle, and the servants with their weapons, he himself set the example by commencing a diligent search for the letter.

“Did this letter contain anything valuable?” said he, after some moments of fruitless search.

“I should rather think it did,” cried the Gascon, who calculated on the letter to make his way at court; “it contained my fortune.”

“Were they bills on the Bank of Spain?” demanded the host, much disturbed.

“Bills on the private treasury of his majesty!” replied d’Artagnan, who, calculating on entering the king’s service through this letter of introduction, thought he might, without lying, make this somewhat rash reply.

“The devil!” exclaimed the host, at his wit’s end.

“But it is of no consequence,” continued d’Artagnan, with his native assurance; “the money is nothing, the letter is all I want. I had rather have lost a thousand pistoles than that!” He might as well have made it twenty thousand, but a certain youthful modesty restrained him. A sudden flash of light illumined the mind of the host, who was uttering maledictions at finding nothing.

“This letter is not lost!” he cried.

“Isn’t it?” said d’Artagnan.

“No, it has been taken from you.”

“Taken! and by whom?”

“By the stranger, yesterday; he went into the kitchen, where your doublet was lying; he was there for a time entirely alone; and I will lay a wager it was he who stole it from you.”

“You really think so?” said d’Artagnan, only half convinced, for he knew better than anybody the strictly personal value of the letter, and saw nothing in it to excite cupidity. The fact is, that none of the servants or travellers who were there could have gained anything by the theft.

“You say, then,” continued d’Artagnan, “that you suspect this impertinent gentleman?”

“I tell you that I am quite certain of it,” said the host; “when I informed him that your worship was the protege of M. de Treville, and that you had a letter for that illustrious noble, he appeared much disturbed, demanded where the letter was, and immediately went into the kitchen, where your doublet was lying.”

“Then he is the robber,” said d’Artagnan; “I will complain to M. de Treville, and he will lay my complaint before his majesty.”

And he majestically drew from his pocket two crowns, which he handed to the host, who followed him, cap in hand, to the archway, where he remounted his yellow horse, which carried him without further accident to the gate of St. Antoine, at Paris. There its owner sold the animal for three crowns; which was a good price, considering that d’Artagnan had over-ridden him in the last part of the journey. The dealer to whom he sold the sheltie for these nine francs, did not conceal from the young man that he paid this exorbitant sum merely on account of the originality of his colour.

D’Artagnan therefore entered Paris on foot, carrying his small valise under his arm, and proceeded until he found a lodging suitable to his slender resources. This chamber was a sort of garret, situated in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, near the Luxembourg. Having paid the luckpenny, he took possession of his lodging, and passed the remainder of the day in sewing on his doublet and breeches sundry laces which his mother had secretly taken from a nearly new doublet of the elder M. d’Artagnan. He then repaired to the Quai de la Feraille, to procure a new blade for his sword; after which he returned to the Louvre, and learned from the first musketeer he met where M. de Treville’s hotel was situated. This he ascertained to be in the Rue de Vieux Colombier; that is, in the very neighbourhood where he had himself taken up his abode; a circumstance which he construed into a happy omen of the success of his expedition.

These matters disposed of, and satisfied with the manner in which he had behaved at Meung, without remorse for the past, confident in the present, and full of hope for the future, he went to bed and slept the sleep of the brave. This sleep, still that of a rustic, lasted till nine o’clock in the morning, the hour at which he rose to repair to the hotel of this famed M. de Treville, who, according to d’Artagnan’s father, was the third personage in the realm.

CHAPTER 2 The Antechamber of M. de Treville

M. de Troisville, as his family was yet called in Gascony, or M. de Treville, as he called himself in Paris, had actually begun life like d’Artagnan; that is to say, without being worth a sou, but with that fund of audacity, esprit, and resolution, which makes the poorest Gascon gentleman often inherit more in imagination than the richest nobleman of Perigord or Berri receives in reality. His daring and haughty courage—still more haughty in success—at the time when blows fell thick as hail, had raised him to the top of that difficult ladder which is called court favour, and which he had climbed four rungs at a time. He was the confidential friend of the king, who, as every one knows, greatly honoured the memory of his father, Henry IV. The father of M. de Treville had served the latter so faithfully in his wars against the League, that, for want of ready money—(a commodity which, during his life, was very scarce with the Bearnese, who constantly paid his debts with what he never had occasion to borrow, that is to say, with his genius)—for want of ready money, as we have said, he had authorised him, after the reduction of Paris, to take for his arms—“Un lion d’or passant, sur gueules,” with the motto, “fidelis et fortis.” It was a great deal of honour, but not much profit; therefore, when the illustrious companion of Henry the Great died, the sole inheritance he left his son was his sword, with the arms and motto. Thanks, however, to this double legacy, and to the name without tarnish which accompanied it, M. de Treville was admitted into the household of the young prince, where he made such good use of his sword, and was so true to his motto, that Louis XIII., one of the best hands with the rapier in his own kingdom, used to say, that if he had a friend who was going to fight, he would advise him to take for a second, first himself, and then Treville, or even perhaps Treville before himself. On this account Louis had a real affection for Treville; a royal affection, an egotistical affection, it must be allowed, but an affection nevertheless. In those unhappy days it was an important consideration to surround oneself with men of Treville’s stamp. Many could take for their device the epithet of “fortis,” which formed the second part of the motto, but very few men could claim the epithet “fidelis,” which formed the first part of it. Treville was one of the few: his was one of those rare organisations with the intelligence and obedience of the mastiff, and a blind courage, and a ready hand, one to whom the eye had been given only to see whether the king was dissatisfied with any one, and the hand only to strike the offending person—a Besme, a Maurevers, a Poltrot de Mere, a Vitry; in short, Treville only wanted an opportunity; but he watched for it, and was resolved to seize it by its three hairs if ever it came within reach of his grasp. Louis XIII. therefore appointed Treville captain of the musketeers, who, by their devotion, or rather fanaticism, became what his ordinary troops were to Henry III., and his Scottish guard to Louis XI. In this respect the cardinal was not behind the king; for when he saw the formidable picked guard with which Louis surrounded himself, this second, or rather this first, king of France, wished also to have his own guard; he therefore, as well as the king, had his musketeers; and these two potent rivals were seen selecting for their service, from all the provinces of France, and even from all foreign countries, men famous for their skill as swordsmen. It was not rare for Richelieu and the king, over their game of chess in the evening, to dispute concerning the merits of their respective followers. Each boasted of the deportment and the courage of his own; and whilst openly inveighing against duels and imbroglios, they secretly excited their respective partisans to right, and experienced immoderate delight, or intense chagrin, at their respective victories or defeats. Thus at least says the memoir of one who was concerned in some of these defeats, and many of these victories.

Treville had seized on the weak point in his master’s character; and to this knowledge he owed the long and constant favour of a king who has not left behind him the reputation of having been constant in his friendships. He paraded his musketeers before the cardinal Armand Duplessis with an air of insolence which made the gray moustache of his eminence curl with anger. Treville also thoroughly understood the war of that period, when, if you lived not at the expense of the enemy, you lived at that of your countrymen. His soldiers formed a legion of very devils, under no discipline but his own. Swaggering bullies, given to wine, the king’s musketeers, or rather M. de Treville’s, spread themselves through the taverns, the public walks, and the theatres, talking loud, curling their moustaches, jingling their swords, hustling the guards of the cardinal when they met them, indulging, in the open street, in a thousand jokes; sometimes killed, but then certain of being lamented and avenged; sometimes killing, but then quite certain not to languish in prison, since M. de Treville was always at hand to procure their pardon and release. Therefore M. de Treville was lauded in every tone, sung of in every key, by these men, who adored him; yet, hang-dogs as they were, they trembled before him as scholars before their master, obedient to a word, and ready to meet death to wipe away any reproach. M. de Treville had used this powerful lever, first, for the king and his friends, and next, for himself and his own friends. The captain of the musketeers was, therefore, admired, feared, and loved, which state constitutes the apogee of human affairs.

Louis XIV. absorbed all the lesser stars of his court, by his vast brilliancy; but his father, “Sol pluribus impar,” imparted his personal splendour to many of his favourites—his individual valour to each of his courtiers. Besides the king’s levee, and that of the cardinal, there were then at Paris at least two hundred smaller ones, fairly exclusive; and amongst these two hundred smaller levees, that of M. de Treville was one of those most frequented. From six o’clock in the morning during summer, and eight in the winter, the courtyard of his hotel, in the Rue du Vieux Colombier, resembled a camp. From fifty to sixty musketeers, who appeared to relieve each other, and to present a number always imposing, were stalking about incessantly, armed to the teeth, and ready for anything. From one end to the other of one of those long staircases, on whose space our modern civilisation would build an entire mansion, ascended and descended those petitioners who sought favours; with provincial gentlemen, eager to be enrolled; and liveried lacqueys of every colour, in the act of delivering messages from their masters to M. de Treville. In the antechamber, on long circular benches, reclined the elite, that is, such of them as had assembled; a continual buzzing prevailed from morning till night; whilst M. de Treville, in his cabinet adjoining the 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 his window to review his men and their arms.

On the day when d’Artagnan presented himself, the assembly was very imposing, especially to a provincial just arrived in Paris. It is true, this provincial was a Gascon, and at this period more especially, d’Artagnan’s countrymen had the reputation of not being easily intimidated. In fact, as soon as any one had passed the threshold of the massive door, studded with long square nails, he found himself in the midst of a troop of swordsmen, who were cruising about the court, talking, quarrelling, and jesting with each other. To clear a path through these eddies, it was necessary to be an officer, a man of rank, or a pretty woman. It was, therefore, in the midst of this crowd and disorder that our youth, holding his long rapier against his slender legs, and the rim of his beaver in his hand, advanced with palpitating heart, yet with that sort of half smile of provincial embarrassment which wishes to create a good impression. When he had passed one group, he breathed more freely; but he perceived that they turned to look at him, and d’Artagnan, who to that day had invariably entertained a pretty good opinion of himself, for the first time in his life thought himself ridiculous. When he had reached the staircase it was still worse; on the first step were four musketeers, who amused themselves in the following manner, whilst ten or a dozen of their companions waited on the landing-place till it was their turn to have a share in the game. One of them on a higher step, with a naked sword in his hand, prevented, or endeavoured to prevent, the other three from mounting the stairs; whilst these three skirmished with him very actively with their swords. D’Artagnan at first took these swords for foils, and thought they were buttoned; but he soon found, by certain scratches, that each weapon was as sharp as possible, and at each of these scratches, not only the spectators, but the actors themselves, laughed most heartily. The one who held the higher step at that time, kept his opponents at bay in a dexterous manner. A circle was formed round him, the condition of the game being, that at every hit, he who was struck should relinquish the pastime, and surrender his turn of reception by M. de Treville to the one who had touched him. In five minutes three were grazed, one on the hand, one on the chin, and another on the ear, by this defender of the staircase, who was himself untouched—a proof of his skill which, according to the rules of the game, entitled him to three turns of favour. This sport surprised our young traveller, although he did not wish it to appear that he was astonished. He had seen in his own province (that province where, moreover, the fiery passions are so promptly roused) a good many provocatives to duels, and yet the gasconade of these four players appeared much stronger than any he had heard of even in Gascony. He fancied he was transported into that famous country of giants where Gulliver afterwards went, and was so much frightened. And yet he had not reached the end: the landing-place and antechamber still remained. On the landing-place they did not fight, but recounted histories of the fair sex; and in the antechamber, tales of the court. On the landing-place d’Artagnan blushed; in the antechamber he shuddered. But if his good manners were shocked on the landing-place, his respect for the cardinal was scandalised in the antechamber. There, to his great astonishment, he heard the policy which made all Europe tremble, openly criticised, as well as the private life of the cardinal, which so many powerful men had been punished for attempting to scrutinise. That great man, whom d’Artagnan’s father had so deeply reverenced, M. de Treville and his men made their butt, deriding his bandy legs and crooked back. Some sang carols on Madame d’Aiguillon, his mistress, and Madame de Combalet, his niece; whilst others planned adventures against the pages and guards of the cardinal duke himself. All these things appeared to d’Artagnan monstrous impossibilities. Nevertheless, when the name of the king accidentally slipped out in the midst of these jokes on the cardinal, a sort of momentary gag stopped all their jeering mouths; they looked around with hesitation, and seemed to doubt the discretion of the wall of M. de Treville’s cabinet. But some allusion soon brought back the conversation to his eminence. The wit was of the most brilliant kind, and none of his actions was uncommented upon. “Verily,” thought d’Artagnan with terror, “these gentry will soon be put into the Bastile and hanged. Doubtless, I shall accompany them, for having heard all they have said. I shall, without doubt, be taken for an accomplice. What would my father say—he who enjoined me so strongly to respect the cardinal—if he knew that I was in the company of such reprobates?”

Of course, while d’Artagnan dared not join in the conversation, he kept his eyes and ears wide open, and every sense on the alert, that he might lose nothing; and in spite of the paternal advice, he found himself drawn by his tastes and instinct, rather to praise than blame the incredible things he heard around him. Nevertheless, as he was absolutely a stranger to the crowd of M. de Treville’s courtiers, and it was the first time he had been seen there, some one came to inquire what he wanted. At this question he humbly gave his name, relying on his being a countryman, and requested the servant to solicit a moment’s audience of M. de Treville—a request which the inquirer, in the tone of a protector, promised to make at the proper time.

D’Artagnan, a little recovered from his first surprise, had now time to study the dresses and countenances of those around him. In the midst of the most animated group was a musketeer of great height, of a haughty countenance, and so fantastical a costume as to attract general attention. He did not wear his uniform tunic, which was not absolutely indispensable at that period of less liberty, yet greater independence, but a close coat of celestial blue, slightly faded and worn, and on this coat a magnificent border of gold embroidery, which glittered like scales upon a sunlit stream; a long mantle or cloak of crimson velvet hung gracefully from his shoulders, discovering the front alone of his splendid belt, from which depended his enormous rapier. This musketeer, who had just come from guard, complained of having caught cold, and coughed occasionally with great affectation. Therefore, as he averred, he had taken his cloak; and whilst he was talking loudly over the group, and proudly curling his moustache, everyone much admired the embroidered belt, and d’Artagnan more than anyone else.

“What would you have?” said the musketeer. “It is the fashion; I know very well that it is foolish, but it is the fashion; besides, one must spend one’s hereditary property on something or other.”

“Ah, Porthos!” cried one of the bystanders, “do not try to make us believe that this lace comes from the paternal generosity: it was given you by the veiled lady with whom I met you the other Sunday, near the gate of St. Honore.”

“No, upon my honour, and by the faith of a gentleman, I bought it with my own money,” said he whom they called Porthos.

“Yes, as I bought this new purse with what my mistress put in the old,” cried another musketeer.

“But it is true,” said Porthos, “and the proof is, that I paid twelve pistoles for it.”

The wonder and admiration were redoubled, though the doubt still existed.

“Is it not so, Aramis?” inquired Porthos, turning to another musketeer.

The person thus appealed to formed a perfect contrast to the one who thus questioned him, and who designated him by the name of Aramis. He was a young man, not more than twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, with a soft and ingenuous countenance, a black and mild eye, and cheeks rosy and damask as an autumnal peach; his slender moustache marked a perfect straight line along his upper lip; his hands appeared to dread hanging down, for fear of making their veins swell; and he was continually pinching the tips of his ears, to make them preserve a delicate and transparent carnation hue. Habitually he talked little and slowly, often bowed, laughed quietly, merely showing his teeth, which were good, and of which, as of the rest of his person, he appeared to take the greatest care. He replied to his friend’s question by an affirmative inclination of the head, and this affirmation appeared to settle all doubt concerning the embroidery. They therefore continued to admire it, but said no more about it; and by a sudden change of thought, the conversation at once passed to another subject.

“What do you think of this story of Chalais’s squire?” inquired another musketeer, not addressing any one in particular, but the company in general.

“And what does he say?” demanded Porthos in a conceited tone.

“He says that he found Rochefort, the tool of the cardinal, at Brussels, disguised as a Capuchin friar; and that this cursed Rochefort, thanks to his disguise, had deceived M. de Laignes, simpleton as he is.”

“He is a simpleton,” said Porthos; “but is it a fact?”

“I heard it from Aramis,” answered the musketeer.

“Really!”

“Ah, you know it well enough, Porthos,” said Aramis.

“I told it you myself yesterday evening; do not let us talk any more about it.”

“Not talk any more about it! that’s your view of the matter,” said Porthos; “not talk any more about it! Egad, you would make short work of it. What! the cardinal sets a spy upon a gentleman, robs him of his correspondence through a traitor, a robber, a gallows-bird; cut Chalais’s throat through this spy, and by means of this correspondence, under the flimsy pretext that he desired to kill the king, and marry monsieur to the queen! No one knew one word of this enigma; you told us of it yesterday evening, to the great astonishment of everyone; and whilst we are still all amazed at the news, you come today and say to us, ‘Let us talk no more about it!’”

“Well, then, since it better suits your humour, let us talk about it,” calmly replied Aramis.

“Were I poor Chalais’s squire,” cried Porthos, “this Rochefort would pass a bad minute with me!”

“And the red duke would make but short work with you,” replied Aramis.

“Ah, the red duke! bravo, bravo, the red duke!” exclaimed Porthos, with an approving nod, and clapping his hands; “the red duke is charming! Rest assured, my dear fellow, that I will disseminate the title. What a genius he has, this Aramis! what a pity that you could not follow your vocation, my dear fellow; what an exquisite abbe you would have made!”

“Oh, it is a mere transitory delay,” replied Aramis; “one day or other I shall be one; for you well know, Porthos, that I continue to study theology with that intention.”

“He will actually do as he says,” replied Porthos; “he will do it, sooner or later.”

“Very soon,” said Aramis.

“He only waits for one thing to decide what he will do, and to resume his cassock, which is hung up behind his uniform,” replied another musketeer.

“And what event does he wait for?” inquired another.

“He waits till the queen has given an heir to the crown of France.”

“Let us not jest on this subject, gentlemen,” said Porthos; “thank God, the queen is yet of an age to give it one.”

“It is said that the Duke of Buckingham is in France,” observed Aramis with a mocking laugh, which gave to his remark, simple as it was in appearance, a meaning sufficiently scandalous.

“Aramis, my friend, this time you are wrong,” rejoined Porthos, “and your wit always leads you too far. It would be the worse for you if M. de Treville heard you talking in this manner.”

“Do not lecture me, Porthos,” cried Aramis, in whose soft eye something like the lightning’s flash now passed.

“My dear fellow, be either musketeer or abbe; be one or the other; but not one and the other,” exclaimed Porthos. “You may remember that Athos told you the other day, that you eat at every rack. But let us not dispute, I beseech you; it would be perfectly useless. You know what is settled between you and me and Athos: you go to Madame d’Aiguillon’s, and you pay her attentions; you then repair to Madame de Bois Tracy, the cousin of Madame de Chevreuse, and a woman in whose good graces you are thought to stand highly. Nay, my dear fellow, confess not your good fortune: no one demands your secret; every one knows your discretion; but since you possess this virtue yourself, surely you will not grudge some portion of it to the queen. Let who will talk about the king and the cardinal, but the queen is sacred; and if you discuss her at all, let it be respectfully.”

“Porthos, you are as presumptuous as Narcissus!” said Aramis; “you know that I detest moralising, except from Athos. As to you, my dear fellow, you have rather too splendid a belt to be powerful on that subject. I will be an abbe if it suits me; in the meantime I am a musketeer, in which character I say what I choose, and at this moment I choose to tell you that you irritate me.”

“Aramis!”

“Porthos!”

“That will do! gentlemen! gentlemen!” cried out all around them.

“M. de Treville awaits M. d’Artagnan,” interrupted the lackey, opening the door of the cabinet.

At this declaration, during which the door remained open, every one was silent; and in the midst of this general silence the young Gascon, passing through part of the antechamber, entered the cabinet of the captain of the musketeers, felicitating himself with all his heart upon just escaping the conclusion of this singular quarrel.

CHAPTER 3 The Audience

M. de Treville was at this moment in a very bad humour; nevertheless, as the young man bowed to the ground, he politely saluted him, and smiled on receiving his compliments, which in their accent, recalled both his youth and his country at the same time—a double recollection, which makes a man smile at every period of his life. But going towards the antechamber, and making a sign with his hand to d’Artagnan, as if requesting permission to finish with others before he began with him, he called three times, raising his voice each time so as to run through the intermediate scale between the tone of command and that of anger—“Athos!”—“Porthos”—“ARAMIS!” The two musketeers, whose acquaintance we have already made, and who answered to the two last of these three names, immediately quitted the group of which they formed a portion, and advanced towards the cabinet, the door of which was closed immediately they had passed its threshold. Their bearing, although not quite calm, was at the same time full of dignity and submission, and their apparent indifference excited the admiration of d’Artagnan, who saw in these men a species of demi-gods, and in their chief an Olympian Jupiter, armed with all his thunders.

When the two musketeers had entered, and the door was closed behind them—when the murmuring buzz of the antechamber, to which the summons that had been given had doubtless furnished a new topic, had recommenced—when, lastly, M. de Treville had paced the whole length of his cabinet three or four times in silence, but with a frowning brow, passing each time before Porthos and Aramis, upright and mute as on parade, he suddenly stopped directly in front of them, and measuring them from top to toe with an angry look, exclaimed, “Do you know what the king said to me, and that not later than last evening? Do you know, gentlemen?”

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

“But we hope you will do us the honour of informing us,” added Aramis in his most polished tone, and with the most graceful bow.

“He told me that, for the future, he should recruit his musketeers from those of the cardinal.”

“From those of the cardinal! And why?” demanded Porthos with heat.

“Because he saw very well that his thin dregs required to be enlivened by some good and generous wine!”

The two musketeers blushed up to the very eyes.

D’Artagnan knew not where he was, and wished himself an hundred feet below the earth.

“Yes, yes,” continued M. De Treville, becoming more warm, “yes, his majesty was right; for, upon my honour, the musketeers cut but a sorry figure at court. Yesterday, whilst playing with the king, the cardinal recounted, with an air of condolence which much annoyed me, that on the previous day these cursed musketeers, these devils incarnate—and he dwelt on these words with an ironical accent, which annoyed me the more—these cutters and slashers—(looking at me with the eye of a tiger)—had loitered beyond closing time in a tavern in the Rue Ferou, and that a picquet of his guards (I thought he would laugh in my face) had been obliged to arrest the disturbers. ‘Od’s-life! you ought to know something about this. Arrest the musketeers! You were amongst them—you, sirs! do not deny it; you were recognised, and the cardinal named you. But it is all my own fault; yes, my fault; for I choose my own men. Look ye, Aramis! why did you ask me for a tunic, when a cassock suited you so well? Hark ye, Porthos! have you got such a splendid belt, only to hang to it a sword of straw? And Athos—I do not see Athos; where is he?”

“Sir,” answered Aramis, in a melancholy tone, “he is ill, very ill.”

“Ill! very ill, say you? and of what disorder?”

“We fear it is the small-pox,” answered Porthos, anxious to put in a word; “and this would be very distressing, since it would certainly spoil his face.”

“The small-pox! This is a marvellous story you are telling me, Porthos! Ill of small-pox at his age! No, no; but doubtless he is wounded, perhaps killed. Ah! if I were certain of this! Zounds, gentlemen, I do not understand why you haunt such loose places, why you quarrel in the streets, and play with the sword in the crossways; and I do not wish you to afford mirth for the cardinal’s guards, who are brave men, quiet, and skilful, who never throw themselves open to an arrest, and who, moreover, would not allow themselves to be arrested, not they! I am sure they would rather die than be arrested or escape! It is you who fly! who scamper away! A fine thing for the royal musketeers, indeed!”

Porthos and Aramis shook with rage. They could have strangled M. de Treville, had they not perceived that his great affection for them was the foundation of all he said.

As it was, they stamped on the carpet, bit their lips till the blood ran, and grasped the hilts of their swords with all their might.

M. de Treville’s summons for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had, as we have said, been heard outside the room; and those who remained in the antechamber had concluded, from the sound of his voice, that he was in a towering rage. Ten curious heads, therefore, rested against the tapestry, and grew pale with anger, for their ears, glued to the door, lost not one word of what was said, whilst they rapidly repeated the taunting language of their captain to all who were in the antechamber. In an instant the whole hotel, from the door of the cabinet to the outer gate, was in a state of commotion.

“So! the musketeers of the king allow themselves to be arrested by the guards of the cardinal!” continued M. de Treville, not less excited within than were his soldiers without, but jerking out and mincing his words, and plunging them, as one may say, one by one, like poniards, into the bosoms of his auditors. “So, six of his excellency’s guards arrest six of his majesty’s musketeers! Sangdieu! I have taken my resolve. I will go hence to the Louvre, where I shall tender to the king my resignation as captain of the musketeers, and demand a lieutenancy in the cardinal’s guards; and if I fail in this, mortdieu, I will turn abbe!”

At these words the murmurs without broke out into a regular explosion; nothing but oaths and curses were everywhere heard. “Morbleu!” “Sangdieu!” and “Death to all the devils!” resounded through the hotel. D’Artagnan hastily glanced around the cabinet in search of some tapestry behind which he might hide himself, and failing in this, felt an almost uncontrollable desire to get under the table.

“Well, captain,” said Porthos, almost beside himself, “the truth is, we were six against six, but were unawares set upon, and before we had time to draw our swords, two of our party fell dead, and Athos was so grievously wounded as to be scarcely in better plight. You know him well, captain; twice he endeavoured to rise, and twice he fell back; and yet we did not yield ourselves up. No, we were dragged away by force; but escaped on the road. As for Athos, they believed him dead, so quietly left him on the field of battle, not thinking he was worth carrying away. That is the truth. Zounds! captain, one cannot gain every battle; even the great Pompey lost that of Pharsalia; and Francis, who, I have heard, was as brave as most men, lost the battle of Pavia.”

“And I can assure you that I killed one fellow with his own sword,” said Aramis, “for mine broke at the first parry. Killed or poniarded him, as you please!”

“I did not know these circumstances,” said M. de Treville, in a somewhat milder tone; “from what I now learn, the cardinal must have exaggerated.”

“But I beseech you, sir—” said Aramis, who, seeing his captain more calm, ventured to hazard a request—“I beseech you, sir, do not say that Athos is wounded; he would be in despair if it came to the king’s ears; as the wound is very severe, having, after passing through the shoulder, penetrated the chest, it is not impossible—”

At this moment the door opened, and a noble and beautiful face, but frightfully pale, appeared.

“Athos!” exclaimed both the gentlemen.

“Athos!” repeated M. de Treville himself.

“You inquired for me,” said Athos, to M. de Treville, in a perfectly calm but feeble voice. “My comrades informed me that you commanded my presence, and I hastened to obey you; here I am, sir; what do you require me for?” And with these words the musketeer, perfectly arrayed, and girded as usual, entered the cabinet with a firm step.

M. de Treville, touched to the heart by this proof of endurance, rushed towards him. “I was just going to tell these gentlemen,” added he, “that I forbid my musketeers to expose their lives unnecessarily; for brave men are dear to the king, and his majesty knows that his musketeers are the bravest on the earth. Your hand, Athos!” And without waiting till he responded to this proof of affection, M. de Treville seized his hand, and pressed it with much warmth, and without observing that Athos, notwithstanding his command over himself, uttered a cry of pain, and became even more pale than before, if it were possible.

In spite of the secrecy which had been observed respecting it, the severe wound which Athos had received was well known to his comrades, and his unlooked-for arrival had produced a great sensation amongst them. The door of the cabinet had, since his entrance, remained ajar; and, as two or three heads were, in the warmth of the general feeling, thrust through the opening of the tapestry, a simultaneous burst of applause followed the last words of their captain. M. de Treville would, doubtless, have sternly and instantly checked this infraction of the laws of propriety; but at the moment he suddenly felt the hand of Athos grasp his own, and, on looking at him, perceived that he was fainting. He had rallied all his powers to struggle against his pain during the interview; but he could now no longer sustain it, and fell senseless upon the carpet.

“A surgeon!” cried M. de Treville; “mine—or, rather, the king’s—a surgeon! or my brave Athos will die!” At these exclamations of M. de Treville, every one rushed into the cabinet, and before he could stop them, pressed round the wounded man. But this eagerness would have been useless, had not the surgeon been found in the hotel. Forcing his way through the spectators, he approached Athos, who was still insensible; and as the pressure of the crowd occasioned him much inconvenience, he directed as the first step of all, that the guardsman should be instantly conveyed into an adjoining apartment. M. de Treville immediately opened a door, and pointed out the way to Porthos and Aramis, who bore off their comrade in their arms.

The cabinet of M. de Treville, that place usually deemed sacred, became for the moment an adjunct to the antechamber, and one in which every one discoursed, talked loud, swore, and consigned the cardinal and all his guards to the infernal regions. In a few moments Porthos and Aramis re-entered, having left M. de Treville and the surgeon with the wounded man. At length M. de Treville himself followed, and announced that Athos had recovered his senses; whilst the surgeon declared that there was nothing in his situation to alarm his friends, his weakness being occasioned entirely by the loss of blood.

Upon a signal from M. de Treville, every one now retired except d’Artagnan, who did not abandon his audience, but, with true Gascon tenacity, held his ground. When all the intruders had left the room, and the door was again closed, M. de Treville turned round, and found himself alone with the young man. The event which had just taken place had in some measure disarranged the previous train of his ideas; and he therefore now inquired what this persevering visitor required. D’Artagnan repeated his name; and M. de Treville, recalling the past and present, instantly became aware of his situation.

“Pardon,” said he smiling, “pardon, my dear countryman, but I had entirely forgotten you. What do you want? A captain is merely the father of a family, but burdened with a heavier responsibility than an ordinary parent; for soldiers are great children; but, as I maintain, it is my duty to see that the orders of the king, and more especially those of the cardinal, are carefully executed.”

D’Artagnan could not repress a smile; and this smile satisfied M. de Treville that he was not dealing with a fool. Therefore he came at once to the point, and, at the same time, changed the subject.

“I have loved your father,” said he; “what can I do for his son? Tell me quickly, for my time is not my own.”

“Sir,” said d’Artagnan, “in quitting Tarbes, and coming here, I wished to ask from you, as a memorial of the friendship which you have not forgotten, the uniform of a musketeer; but from what I have seen during these last two hours, I more fully comprehend the extreme importance of the favour, and tremble lest I may not be deemed a fit recipient.”

“It is truly a great favour, young man,” said M. de Treville; “but it cannot be so far above you as you believe, or, at least, seem to believe. However, a decision his majesty has provided for this case; and I regret to inform you, that no one is received among the musketeers who has not passed the ordeal of some campaigns, performed certain brilliant actions, or served for two years in some less favoured regiment than our own.”

D’Artagnan bowed in silence, but at the same time feeling more eager to don the uniform of the musketeers, since that object could only be obtained with great difficulty.

“But,” continued M. de Treville, fixing his piercing look upon his countryman, as if he wished to penetrate the inmost recesses of his heart, “but for the sake of my ancient friend, your father, I wish to do something for you. Young man, we cadets of Bearn are not in general overburdened with wealth, and I fear that matters are not much improved in this respect since I left the province. Your purse, therefore, can scarce be as full as it was.”

D’Artagnan drew himself up with a proud air, which seemed to say, “I ask charity of none.”

“It is well, young man, it is very well; I understand your feelings. I came to Paris myself with only four crowns in my pocket, and I would have fought any one who had dared to dispute my ability to purchase the Louvre.”

D’Artagnan assumed a still prouder air. Thanks to the sale of his horse, he began the world with four crowns more than M. de Treville.

“I should say, therefore, that however large may be the sum you really possess, you ought to preserve it. In the meantime you must perfect yourself in all those accomplishments which become a gentleman, and I will this day write a letter to the director of the Royal Academy, who will receive you tomorrow without any fee. Do not refuse this trifling favour. Gentlemen of the highest rank and wealth often solicit without being able to obtain it, the same gift. You will there learn to ride, to fence, and to dance; you will form a circle in good society; and from time to time you must personally apprise me of your progress, and let me know if I can do anything for you.”

D’Artagnan, ignorant as he was of the manners of high society, felt the coldness of this reception.

“Alas, sir,” said he, “I now deeply feel the want of the letter of introduction which my father gave me for you.”

“I am, in truth, somewhat surprised,” replied M. de Treville, “that you should have undertaken so long a journey without that viaticum, so essential to every Bearnese.”

“I had one, sir, and a good one—thank God!” cried d’Artagnan, “but was perfidiously robbed of it;” and with a degree of warmth and an air of truth which charmed M. de Treville, he recounted his adventure at Meung, accurately describing his unknown adversary.

“It was very strange,” said M. de Treville musingly. “You spoke of me openly, did you?”

“Yes, sir, I certainly committed that imprudence; but such a name as yours served me as a shield on my journey; therefore you can guess if I frequently covered myself with it or no!”

It was an age of flattery, and M. de Treville loved the incense as well as a king or a cardinal. He could not help smiling, therefore, with evident satisfaction; but this smile soon passed away, and returning to the adventure at Meung, he continued—

“Tell me, had not this gentleman a slight scar on the cheek?”

“Yes, as if left by a pistol-ball.”

“Was he not a man of commanding air?”

“Yes.”

“Of a tall figure?”

“Yes.”

“With an olivine complexion?”

“Yes, yes, that is he: but do you know this man, sir? Ah! if I ever meet him—and I will find him, I swear to you, even were he in hell—”

“He attended a woman did he not?” continued M. de Treville.

“At least he departed after he had conversed a moment with the one he had attended.”

“Do you know the subject of their conversation?”

“He gave her a box, which he said contained her instructions, and desired her not to open it until she arrived in London.”

“Was this woman an Englishwoman?”

“He called her ‘my lady.’”

“It is he,” murmured Treville: “it must be; I thought he was at Brussels.”

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed d’Artagnan, “if you know this man, tell me who and whence he is, and I will hold you absolved even of your promise to admit me amongst the musketeers; for before and above everything else, I long to avenge myself.”

“Beware, young man,” said M. de Treville. “Should you perceive this man walking on the one side of the street, instead of seeking your revenge, proceed yourself on the opposite side; precipitate not yourself against such a rock, upon which you will assuredly be shattered like glass.”

“That fear will not deter me, should I ever meet him,” said d’Artagnan.

“In the meantime, do not seek him,” replied Treville.

“If you take my advice—”

But all at once M. de Treville paused, as if struck by a sudden suspicion: the deadly hatred which the young traveller so openly avowed for this man who had deprived him of his father’s letter—which was in itself a very improbable circumstance—might not this apparent enmity conceal some perfidy? Was not this young man sent by his eminence? Did not he come to lay a trap for him? Was not this pretended d’Artagnan an emissary of the cardinal, whom the latter sought to introduce into his house, and whom he wished to place near him to worm himself into his confidence, and afterwards to betray him, as was often done in similar cases? He looked more earnestly at d’Artagnan than at first, and was but slightly reassured by the appearance of that countenance, beaming with acute talent and affected humility. “I know very well that he is a Gascon,” thought he; “but he is just as likely to be one for the cardinal as for me. Yet I will try him further.”

“Young man,” said he slowly, “as the son of mine ancient friend—for I consider the history of this lost letter as true—I wish, in order to compensate for the coolness which you perceived in my first reception, to reveal to you the secrets of our politics. The king and the cardinal are the best of friends; their apparent disputes are merely to deceive fools; and I do not wish that my countryman, a handsome cavalier, a brave youth, formed to rise in the world, should be the dupe of all these pretences, and, like a simpleton, rush headlong into the snare which has made awful examples of so many others. Rest assured, that I am entirely devoted to these two all-powerful masters, and that all my serious proceedings can never have any other object in view than the service of the king, and of the cardinal, who is one of the most illustrious geniuses that France has ever produced. Now, young man, regulate your conduct by this; and should you, through your family or connections, or even your instincts, bear the slightest hostility towards the cardinal, such as you may have seen burst forth occasionally amongst our nobility, take your leave, and quit me. I can assist you in a thousand ways, without attaching you to my own person. At all events, I hope my frankness will make you my friend, for you are the first young man to whom I have as yet spoken in this manner.”

Treville ceased speaking, but he thought to himself, “If the cardinal has really sent me this young fox, he would not surely fail—he who knows how much I loathe him—to tell his spy that the best way of paying court to me, is to rail at himself. Therefore, in spite of my protestations, the cunning fellow will doubtless say that he holds his eminence in detestation.”

The result, however, was far different from M. de Treville’s anticipations. D’Artagnan replied, with the utmost simplicity, “Sir, I am come to Paris with sentiments and intentions exactly similar to those you have just expressed. My father charged me to obey no one but the king, the cardinal, and yourself, whom he considers the three greatest men in France.” D’Artagnan, it will be perceived, added M. de Treville to the others, but he considered that this addition would do no harm. “Hence,” he continued, “I have the greatest veneration for the cardinal, and the most profound respect for his actions. It is, therefore, so much the better for me, sir, if, as you say, you speak frankly to me, since you will then do me the honour to esteem this similarity of opinions; but if, on the contrary, as may be very natural, you entertain any feelings of distrust respecting me, so much the worse, as I shall then feel that I am ruined by speaking the truth. But in any case, you will at least honour me with your esteem, which I value more than anything else.”

M. de Treville was astonished. So much penetration, and yet so much candour, excited his admiration, although they failed in wholly removing his doubts. The more superior this youth was to other young men, the more formidable a traitor would he make. Nevertheless, he grasped d’Artagnan’s hand, and said to him, “You are an honest fellow; but at present I can only do for you what I have promised. In the meantime, my hotel shall always be open to you; so that, having access to me at all times, and being ready to take advantage of every opportunity, you will probably hereafter obtain what you desire.”

“That is to say,” replied d’Artagnan, “that you will wait till I have become worthy of it. Very well,” he added, with Gascon familiarity; “rest assured that you will not have to wait long;” and he bowed to retire, as if the future lay with himself.

“But wait a moment,” said M. de Treville, stopping him; “I promised you a letter to the director of the Academy. Are you too proud to accept it, my little gentleman?”

“No, sir,” replied d’Artagnan; “and I will answer for it that the same fate that overtook my father’s letter shall not occur to this, which I will take good care shall reach its destination; and woe be to him who shall attempt to deprive me of it.”

M. de Treville smiled at this gasconade, and leaving his young countryman in the embrasure of the window, where they had been talking, sat down to write the promised letter of introduction. In the meantime, d’Artagnan, who had nothing better to do, beat a march on the window, looking at the musketeers, who had followed each other, and watching them rounding the corner of the street. M. de Treville, having written the letter and sealed it, approached the young man to give it to him; but at the very moment when d’Artagnan held out his hand to receive it, M. de Treville was astonished to perceive his protege spring up, redden with anger, and rush out of the cabinet, exclaiming—

“‘Od’s blood! he shall not escape me this time!”

“And who is he?” demanded M. de Treville.

“It is he—the robber!” replied d’Artagnan. “Oh, what a traitor!”—and he vanished.

“Deuce take the madman!” murmured M. de Treville, “unless it is, after all, a clever mode of giving me the slip, seeing that he has failed in his attempts.”

CHAPTER 4 The Shoulder of Athos, the Belt of Porthos, and the Handkerchief of Aramis

D’Artagnan, quite furious, had passed through the antechamber in three bounds, and reached the staircase, which he was about to descend by four steps at a time, when he suddenly ran full butt against a musketeer, who was leaving M. de Treville’s suite of rooms by a private door, and butting his shoulder, made him utter a cry, or rather a howl. “Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, trying to continue his course; “excuse me; I am in a great hurry.”

But he had hardly descended the first step, before a hand of iron seized him by the scarf and stopped him. “You are in a hurry!” exclaimed the musketeer, as pale as a sheet, “and under this pretext you dash against me. You say, ‘Excuse me,’ and think that is sufficient. But it is not so, my young man. Do you imagine, because you heard M. de Treville address us somewhat bluntly today that any one may speak to us as he speaks? Undeceive yourself, comrade: you are not M. de Treville?”

“Upon my word—” said d’Artagnan, seeing that it was Athos, who, after the treatment of the surgeon, was now returning to his apartments—“upon my word, I did not run against you on purpose; and not having done it on purpose, I said, ‘Excuse me.’ It appears to me, therefore, quite sufficient. Nevertheless, I repeat—and this time perhaps it is an excess of courtesy—that, upon my honour, I am in a hurry, a confounded hurry: loose me, therefore, I beseech you, and permit me to go about my business.”

“Sir,” said Athos, releasing him, “you are by no means polite; it is evident that you come from a distance.”

D’Artagnan had already descended three or four steps, but at the remark of Athos, he stopped short. “Sir,” said he, “from whatever distance I may come, I assure you that you are not the individual to give me a lesson in good manners.”

“Perhaps I am,” replied Athos.

“Ah! would that I were not in such a hurry,” exclaimed d’Artagnan, “and that I were not running after some one!”

“Monsieur in a hurry! you will find me without running; do you understand?”

“And where, may it please you?”

“Near the Carmes-Deschaux.”

“At what hour?”

“About twelve o’clock.”

“Very well, I will be there.”

“Take care that you do not make me wait too long,” said Athos, “for I tell you plainly, at a quarter past twelve, it is I that will run after you, and cut off your ears as you go!”

“Good!” exclaimed d’Artagnan; “but I will take special care to be there at ten minutes before twelve.”

And he commenced running again as if possessed by devils, hoping still to catch the unknown, whose slow pace could not yet have carried him beyond his reach. But at the corner of the street Porthos was talking with one of the soldiers on guard, and between these two there was just space enough for a man to pass. D’Artagnan fancied that this space was sufficient for him, and he shot forward to rush like an arrow between the two. He had not, however, made allowance for the wind, which, whilst he was passing, actually bellied out the enormous cloak of Porthos, into which he fairly plunged. Doubtless Porthos had cogent reasons for not abandoning this most essential portion of his dress; and therefore, instead of letting go the corner which he held, he drew it more closely towards him, so that d’Artagnan found himself rolled up in the velvet, by a rotatory motion which is clearly explained by the obstinate resistance of Porthos.

D’Artagnan, hearing the musketeer swear, wished to escape from under the cloak, which completely blinded him, and sought for an outlet from the folds. Above all things he feared that he had injured the freshness of the magnificent belt, of which we have heard so much; but on recovering his powers of vision he found his nose jammed between the shoulders of Porthos; that is, exactly on the belt. Alas! like the majority of the fine things of this world, which are only made for outward show, the belt was of gold in front, and of simple leather behind. In fact, Porthos, proud as he was, being unable to afford a belt entirely of gold, had procured one of which the half at least was of that metal. And this may perhaps account for the cold under which Porthos had avowed himself as suffering, and the consequent need of the cloak.

“’Od’s-boddikins!” cried Porthos, making every effort to free himself from d’Artagnan, who kept poking his nose into his back; “you are mad to throw yourself in this manner upon people.”

“Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, reappearing from beneath the shoulder of the giant, “but I was in a hurry; I am running after some one—”

“Do you shut your eyes when you run?” demanded Porthos.

“No,” answered d’Artagnan, somewhat piqued, “no; and, thanks to my eyes, I can see what others do not see.”

Whether Porthos understood him or not, he yet gave way to his anger. “Sir,” said he, “you will get yourself chastised, if you thus rub against the musketeers.”

“Chastised, sir!” said d’Artagnan; “your expression is harsh.”

“It is such as becomes a man who is accustomed to face his enemies.”

“Ah, by St. Denis,” replied d’Artagnan, “I know well that you would not turn your back upon yours!” and the young man, delighted with his joke, marched off, laughing outrageously.

Porthos foamed with anger, and was hastening after him; but d’Artagnan turned and said—

“By and by, by and by, when you are without your cloak.”

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

“Very well, at one o’clock,” answered d’Artagnan, as he turned into the street adjoining.

But neither in the street which he had just traversed, nor in that down which he looked, did he see any one. Slowly as the stranger had walked, he had disappeared. Perhaps he had entered some house. D’Artagnan inquired after him of every one he met; he even went down to the ferry, returned by the Rue de Seine and La Croix Rouge, but no one, actually no one, was to be seen. This pursuit, however, was so far serviceable to him, that, as the perspiration bathed his forehead, his heart grew cool, and he then began to reflect on the events which had just transpired. They were numerous and inauspicious. It was scarcely eleven o’clock, and already the morning had brought with it the loss of M. de Treville’s favour, since he must have deemed the mode in which d’Artagnan left him extremely abrupt; beside this, he had picked up good duels, with two men, each of them capable of slaying three d’Artagnans; and, lastly, these duels were with musketeers, with two of those very men whom he esteemed so highly as to rank them in his mind and heart above all the world. The Fates were against him; sure of being killed by Athos, it is clear our youth did not care much about Porthos. However, as hope is the last thing which is extinguished in man’s heart, he began to hope he might survive—it might be, to be sure, with some terrible wounds; and, under the impression that he should survive, he gave himself the following rebukes as a guard for the future:—“What a harebrained fellow I am! What a booby! This brave and unlucky Athos was wounded on the shoulder, against which I must therefore run full butt like a ram. The only thing which surprises me is, that he did not kill me at once. He would have been justified in doing so, for the pain I caused him must have been excruciating. As for Porthos—oh! as for Porthos, upon my word, it is even more droll.” And in spite of all his efforts to restrain himself, the youth began to laugh, at the same time looking round lest this solitary merriment, which to those who might see him must appear without cause, should offend any one passing. “As to Porthos,” he continued, “it is more droll; but I am not the less a miserable giddy-pate, to throw myself thus upon people, without saying ‘take care.’ And, besides, does any one look under a person’s cloak to search for what no one supposes to be there? He would doubtless have pardoned me, had I not spoken to him of that cursed belt. It was, it is true, only by insinuation—yes, but a neat insinuation. I’faith a pretty business! Foolish Gascon that I am—a pretty kettle of fish I shall make. Come, my friend, d’Artagnan,” he continued, addressing himself with all the amenity to which he thought himself entitled; “should you escape, which is not very probable, you must practise courtesy for the future; hereafter every one must admire you, and must quote you as a model. To be obliging and polite is not to be cowardly. Observe Aramis: he is softness and grace personified. And yet did any one ever pretend to say that Aramis was a coward? No; and for the future I will in all points make him my model. Ah! singular enough, here he is.”

D’Artagnan, thus walking and soliloquising, had arrived within a few paces of the hotel d’Aiguillon, and before this hotel he perceived Aramis talking gaily with three gentlemen of the king’s guards. On the other hand, although Aramis perceived d’Artagnan, he had not forgotten that it was before this young man that M. de Treville had given way to passion, and a witness of the reproaches that the musketeers had received was by no means agreeable to him. He therefore pretended not to see him; but d’Artagnan, full of his new-formed plans of conciliation and courtesy, approached the four young men, making them a profound obeisance, accompanied by a gracious smile. Aramis bowed slightly, but did not smile. Silence fell upon the group. D’Artagnan had acuteness enough to perceive that he was an intruder; but he was not sufficiently skilled in the ways of polite society to withdraw himself dexterously from a false position, such as is generally that of a man who joins those he scarcely knows, and intrudes himself into a conversation in which he has no interest. He therefore sought within himself for some means of retreat which might be the least awkward, when he suddenly perceived that Aramis had dropped his handkerchief, and, inadvertently no doubt, had put his foot upon it. The moment appeared to be favourable for repairing his ill-timed intrusion; he therefore stooped down with the most graceful air imaginable, drew the handkerchief from under the musketeer’s foot, notwithstanding the efforts he made to retain it there, saying, as he presented it to Aramis, “I believe, sir, this is a handkerchief which you would be sorry to lose.”

The handkerchief was, in fact, richly embroidered, and had a coronet and arms in one of its corners. Aramis blushed excessively, and snatched, rather than took, the handkerchief from the hands of the Gascon.

“Ah! ah!” said one of the guards, “will you still insist, most discreet Aramis, that you are on bad terms with Madame de Bois Tracy, when that gracious lady condescends to lend you her handkerchief?”

Aramis threw such a glance at d’Artagnan, as makes a man understand that he has gained a mortal enemy. Then, resuming his soft air, “You guess wrong, comrades,” said he; “this handkerchief is not mine, and I know not why this gentleman has had the fancy to give it to me, rather than to one of you; and as a proof of what I say, here is my own in my pocket.” So saying, he drew from his pocket his own handkerchief, a very handsome one, of fine cambric, although cambric at that time was very dear; but it was without embroidery, without arms, and adorned with a simple cipher, that of its owner.

This time d’Artagnan was silent. He had discovered his mistake. But the friends of Aramis would not allow themselves to be convinced by his denial; and one of them, addressing the young musketeer with an affected air of solemnity, said—

“If the fact is as you assert, my dear Aramis, I shall be compelled to demand possession of the handkerchief, de Bois Tracy being, as you are aware, one of my most intimate friends, and I should not wish any one to display his wife’s property by way of a trophy.”

“You make this demand with a bad grace,” replied Aramis; “and on this ground alone, even were I to admit its justice fundamentally, I should still refuse compliance with your request.”

“The fact is,” modestly observed d’Artagnan, “I did not see the handkerchief fall from the pocket of M. Aramis; he had his foot upon it, however, and hence my reason for supposing that it belonged to him.”

“And you were mistaken, sir,” coldly replied Aramis, not very grateful for the apology. Then, turning to the guardsman who had avowed himself the friend of de Bois Tracy, he added, “Besides, on reflection, my worthy comrade, I am the friend of de Bois Tracy as well as yourself, and this handkerchief, strictly speaking, might have come from your pocket as well as from mine.”

“No, upon my honour,” said the musketeer.

“You swear by your honour, and I pledge my word; therefore one of us must evidently lie. But come, Monterau, let us do something better than indulge in counter assertions and denials: let each of us take half.”

“Of the handkerchief?”

“Yes.”

“Perfectly fair,” cried the other two guardsmen; “decidedly the judgment of Solomon. Aramis, you are certainly cram-ful of wisdom!” exclaimed the young men, indulging in hearty laughter; and the affair, as may be imagined, was thus deprived of further importance. Immediately afterwards the conversation ceased, and the friends separated, with a cordial shaking of hands, the three guardsmen going one way, and Aramis another.

“Now is my opportunity for making my peace with this gentleman,” mentally ejaculated d’Artagnan, who had kept somewhat aloof during the latter part of the conversation, and who now, impelled by this good feeling, approached Aramis, who was departing without taking any further notice of him.

“I hope, sir, that you will excuse me,” said he, addressing Aramis.

“Sir,” rejoined the latter, “you must permit me to remark, that you have not acted in this affair as a man of good breeding ought to have done.”

“What inference, sir, am I to draw from your remark?”

“Why, sir, I take it for granted that you are not a fool; and that, although coming from Gascony, you must be well aware that no one walks upon pocket-handkerchiefs without sufficient reason for so doing. Zounds, sir, Paris is not paved with cambric!”

“You do me injustice, sir, in thus endeavouring to mortify me,” said d’Artagnan, in whom the inherent love of quarrelling began to operate much more forcibly than his previous pacific intentions. “I am a Gascon, it is true; and, as you do not require to be informed, the Gascons are not very long-suffering; therefore, when they have once apologised, even should it be for some imprudence, they consider that they have done one half more than they ought to do.”

“What I have said to you, sir,” retorted Aramis, “is not for the purpose of seeking a quarrel with you. Thank God! I am no bully; and being a musketeer only temporarily, I never fight except when I am compelled, and then with the utmost reluctance. This, however, is a serious affair, for a lady here is compromised by you.”

“Say rather by us,” cried d’Artagnan.

“Why did you perpetrate such a stupid blunder as to give me this handkerchief?”

“Why were you so stupid as to let it fall?”

“I have declared, and I repeat, sir, that this handkerchief did not come from my pocket.”

“Well, then, you have twice lied; for I myself saw it fall from your pocket.”

“Ah, is this the tone you choose to assume, Sir Gascon? Well, I must teach you how to behave better.”

“And I will send you back to your missal, M. Abbe; so draw, if you please, this instant?”

“No, I thank you, my fine fellow; not here, at any rate. Do you not perceive that we are opposite the hotel d’Aiguillon, which is full of the cardinal’s creatures. In fact, who can say that it is not his eminence who has commissioned you to procure my head for him. Now, as it happens that I entertain what may appear to you a ridiculous affection for my head, provided it remains tolerably firm on my shoulders, I wish, before parting with it, to kill you. But keep yourself quite easy on that score; I will kill you at leisure, in a retired and secret spot, where you may not be able to boast of your death to any one.”

“I am quite agreeable,” replied d’Artagnan; “but do not be puffed up; and here, take away your handkerchief, whether it belongs to you or not; probably you may have tears to dry.”

“Spoken like a true Gascon, sir,” said Aramis.

“Yes; but that is no reason why you should delay our little affair, unless, indeed, you are influenced by more prudential motives.”

“I know well that prudence, although indispensable to churchmen, is a virtue unknown to the musketeers,” replied Aramis, “and being, as I have informed you, only a soldier temporarily, I am resolved to remain prudent. At two o’clock I shall have the honour of awaiting you at the hotel of M. de Treville, whence I will conduct you to a more convenient spot.”

The two young men then bowed to each other, and parted. Aramis proceeded towards the Luxembourg; whilst d’Artagnan, finding that the time approached, took the road to the Carmes Deschaux, all the while inwardly ejaculating—“Positively, I cannot escape! but at all events, if I am killed, it will be by a musketeer.”

CHAPTER 5 The King’s Musketeers and the Cardinal’s Guards

D’Artagnan was friendless in Paris. He therefore went to meet Athos without being provided with a second, having made up his mind to be satisfied with those which accompanied his adversary. Besides, he fully intended to offer the brave musketeer all suitable apologies, but, at the same time, to betray nothing having the slightest appearance of timidity or weakness. He also feared such a result from this duel as may be naturally anticipated in an affair of the kind, where a young and vigorous man fights with an opponent who is wounded and enfeebled; and in which, should the former be vanquished, the triumph of his opponent is doubled; whilst, should the former prove the conqueror, he is not only accused of being brave at small risk, but even his courage is regarded as extremely doubtful. Moreover, unless we have been unsuccessful in our attempt to portray the true character of our adventurer, the reader must have already remarked, that d’Artagnan was no common type. Therefore, although he could not divest himself of the idea that his death was inevitable, he had by no means resolved quietly to resign himself to his fate with that patience which another less courageous than himself might perhaps have displayed in such a case. He pondered upon the different characters of those with whom he was about to engage, and at length began to obtain a clearer view of his situation. By means of the sincere apology which he contemplated, he hoped to conciliate Athos, whose aristocratic air and austere manner quite delighted him. Then he flattered himself that he might intimidate Porthos by the adventure of the belt, whose story, if he were not instantaneously killed, he might relate to every one, so as to overwhelm him with ridicule. Lastly, as regarded the quiet Aramis, he entertained very slight apprehensions; for, supposing that he should survive to fight him, he entertained no doubt of his ability to make short work of him, or, at all events, by wounding him in the face (as Caesar recommended his men to do with Pompey’s soldiers), to spoil for ever that beauty of which he was so vain. In fine, d’Artagnan now brought into action those principles of unconquerable and steady resolve which the counsels of his father had implanted in his heart—counsels which, as we know, had instructed him to submit to nothing like indignity unless it proceeded from the king, the cardinal, or M. de Treville.

Full of these ideas, he sped as if on wings towards the convent des Carmes Deschaux—a building without windows, adjoining a chapel of ease of the Pre-aux-Clercs, and surrounded by dry meadows, which generally served as a rendezvous for those combatants who had no time to lose. As d’Artagnan came in sight of the small open space in front of the convent, it struck the hour of noon, and Athos had already been about five minutes on the ground. He was therefore as punctual as the Samaritan woman, and the most rigorous casuist in the laws of duelling could have found nothing to censure.

Athos, who continued to suffer severely from his wound, although it had again been dressed by M. de Treville’s surgeon, had seated himself on a large stone, where he awaited his adversary with that air of calmness and dignity which never forsook him. As d’Artagnan approached, he arose, and politely advanced some steps to meet him; whilst d’Artagnan, on his part, went towards his antagonist bowing until his plume touched the ground.

“Sir,” said Athos, “I expected two of my friends who are to act as my seconds, but they are not yet arrived. I am surprised that they should be so late, as they are generally punctual!”

“I have no second, sir,” said d’Artagnan; “I only arrived in Paris yesterday; consequently I am unknown to any one here except M. de Treville, to whom I was introduced by my father, who has the honour to claim his friendship.”

Athos mused for an instant, and then said: “So M. de Treville is your only acquaintance?”

“Yes, sir, I know no one but him.”

“Oh, then,” continued Athos sotto voce, “if I should kill you, I shall acquire the reputation of a child-eater.”

“Not entirely so, sir,” answered d’Artagnan, with a bow which was not devoid of dignity, “not quite so; since you do me the honour to draw your sword against me whilst suffering from a wound which must occasion you great inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience! Upon my honour I assure you that you hurt me confoundedly. But I will use my left hand, as I usually do under such circumstances. Yet do not imagine that by this means I do you a favour, as I fight equally well with either hand. Indeed, it will rather be a disadvantage to you, a left-handed man being a very trying opponent to one who is not used to it. I regret, therefore, that I did not apprise you sooner of this circumstance.”

“Really, sir,” said d’Artagnan, again bowing, “you are so very courteous that I cannot be sufficiently grateful.”

“You overwhelm me,” replied Athos, with the air of a well-bred man; “if it be not disagreeable to you, pray let us converse upon some other subject. Ah! how you did hurt me! how my shoulder still burns!”

“Would you permit me—?” said d’Artagnan, somewhat timidly.

“To do what, sir?” inquired Athos.

“I have a salve which is quite a panacea for wounds—a salve which my mother gave me, and which I have tried upon myself with success.”

“And what of it?” continued Athos.

“Why, sir, I am certain that in less than three days this salve would cure you; and at the end of that time, when your cure is completed, it would be a great honour for me to cross swords with you.”

D’Artagnan uttered these words with a simplicity which did honour to his courtesy, without in the slightest degree detracting from his courage.

“By my faith!” exclaimed Athos, “this is a proposition which much pleases me; not that I should think of accepting it; but it savours of the perfect knight, and it was thus that, in the days of Charlemagne, those brave men, whom every man of honour should make his model, spoke. Unfortunately, however, we do not live in the times of the great emperor, but in those of the cardinal; and three days hence, however well we might preserve our secret, it would be known that we were going to fight, and we should be prevented. But,” he added, with some impatience, “these seconds are laggards.”

“If you are in haste, sir,” said d’Artagnan, with the same simplicity that had the moment before characterised his proposition to put off the duel for three days—“if you are in haste, and should wish to dispose of me at once, dispense with the seconds, I beseech you.”

“This speech of yours pleases me still more,” said Athos, gracefully bowing to d’Artagnan, “it does not seem that of a man who lacks either head or heart. I admire men of your stamp, and, if we are spared, I shall hereafter have sincere pleasure in your acquaintance. Meantime, let us wait for these gentlemen, I pray you. I have plenty of time, and it will be more according to rule. Ah! see, here comes one of them.”

And as he spoke, the gigantic form of Porthos was seen at the end of the Rue de Vaugirard.

“What!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, “is M. Porthos one of your seconds!”

“Yes, have you any objection to him?”

“Oh, certainly not!”

“And here is the other.”

D’Artagnan looked in the direction indicated by Athos, and beheld Aramis.

“What!” cried he, in a tone of yet greater astonishment, “is M. Aramis the other of your seconds?”

“Certainly; are you not aware that one is rarely seen without the other, and that amongst the musketeers and guards, at court and in the town, we are known as Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, or the three inseparables? But as you come from Dax or Pau—”

“From Tarbes,” said d’Artagnan.

“You may very naturally be ignorant of all this.”

“Really, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “you are well named; and should my adventure become known, it will at least prove that like draws to like.”

In the meantime Porthos approached, shook hands with Athos, and turning towards d’Artagnan, seemed lost in astonishment. We may mention, in passing, that he had changed his belt, and laid aside his cloak.

“It is with this gentleman that I am about to fight,” said Athos, pointing towards d’Artagnan, and at the same time saluting him.

“And I also am going to fight him,” replied Porthos.

“But not till one o’clock,” interrupted d’Artagnan.

“And I also—it is with him that I am to fight,” said Aramis, who had arrived on the ground, just after Porthos.

“Our appointment, however, is for two o’clock,” replied d’Artagnan, with the same coolness.

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

“Upon my faith, I do not well know, except that he hurt my shoulder.”

“And you, Porthos?”

“I fight because I fight,” replied Porthos colouring. Athos, whom nothing escaped, perceived a slight smile curling the lips of the Gascon.

“We had a dispute about dress,” said d’Artagnan.

“And you, Aramis?” demanded Athos.

“Me? I fight on account of a theological dispute,” answered Aramis, making a sign to d’Artagnan that he wished him to conceal the true cause of their duel.

“Really!” said Athos, who observed d’Artagnan smile again.

“Yes, a point of St. Augustine, on which we could not agree,” said the Gascon.

“Decidedly he is a man of spirit,” murmured Athos.

“And now that you are all arrived, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “permit me to offer my apologies.”

A frown passed over the brow of Athos, a haughty smile glided over the lips of Porthos, and a negative sign was the reply of Aramis.

“You do not rightly understand me, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, elevating his head, on which a sunbeam played, gilding its fine and manly lines. “I wish to apologise because it is improbable that I shall be able to pay my debt to all three; for M. Athos has the right to kill me first, which greatly decreases the value of your bill, M. Porthos, whilst it renders yours, M. Aramis, of scarcely the slightest value. Therefore, gentlemen, on that account alone, I again repeat my offer of apology. And now upon your guard!”

And with the most gallant and fearless mien he drew his sword.

His blood was fairly roused, and at that moment he would have drawn his sword against all the musketeers in the kingdom with as little hesitation as he then did against Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

It was a quarter past twelve, the sun was at its meridian, and the situation chosen for the encounter was exposed to its fierce heat.

“It is very hot,” said Athos, drawing his sword, “and yet I cannot take off my doublet, for just now I perceived that my wound bled, and I fear to distress this gentleman by showing him blood which he has not drawn from me himself.”

“True, sir,” replied d’Artagnan, “but I assure you that, whether drawn by myself or by any other person, I shall always see with regret the blood of so brave a gentleman; I will therefore follow your example, and fight in my doublet.”

“Come,” said Porthos, “a truce to these compliments. Remember that we also await our turn.”

“Speak for yourself only, Porthos, when you choose to be so rude,” interposed Aramis. “As for me, I consider the courtesies which have passed between these gentlemen as worthy of men of the highest honour.”

“When you please, sir,” said Athos, placing himself on his guard.

“I was at your service,” said d’Artagnan, crossing his sword.

But the two rapiers had scarcely met, when a party of the cardinal’s guards, commanded by M. de Jussac, appeared at the corner of the convent.

“The cardinal’s guards!” exclaimed Porthos and Aramis at the same moment. “Sheathe swords—gentlemen—sheathe swords!”

But it was too late. The combatants had been seen in a position which left no doubt of their intentions.

“Hollo!” cried Jussac, advancing towards them, and giving a signal to his men to do the same. “Hollo, musketeers! What, fighting here? And the edicts—are they forgotten, eh?”

“You are extremely generous, gentlemen of the guards,” said Athos, in a tone of the most bitter animosity, for Jussac had been one of the aggressors on the night before last. “If we saw you fighting, I promise you that we should not prevent it; therefore let us alone, and you will enjoy the spectacle without any of the pain.”

“Gentlemen,” answered Jussac, “it is with regret I declare that what you request is impossible. Duty must take precedence of everything else. Sheathe, therefore, if you please, and follow us.”

“Sir,” said Aramis, parodying Jussac’s manner, “if it depended upon ourselves, we should accept your polite invitation with the utmost pleasure; but unfortunately the thing is impossible. M. de Treville has forbidden it. Move on, therefore; it is the best thing you can do.”

This mockery exasperated Jussac. “We will charge you,” said he, “if you disobey.”

“They are five,” said Athos in a low voice, “and we are only three; we shall be beaten again, and we must die here; for I positively swear that I will not again appear before the captain a vanquished man.”

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis closed up to each other, whilst Jussac drew up his men. This moment of delay sufficed for d’Artagnan to form his resolution. It was one of those moments weighed with a man’s whole destiny; it was a choice between the king and the cardinal, and this choice, once made, must be adhered to. To fight was to disobey the law, to risk his head, and, by one blow, to make an enemy of a minister more powerful than the king himself. All this the young man plainly perceived, and we must do him the justice to declare that he did not hesitate a single instant.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “you must allow me to correct one thing which you have said. You affirmed that you were but three; but it appears to me that there are four of us.”

“You are not one of us,” said Porthos.

“True,” replied d’Artagnan, “I have not the dress, but I have the heart and soul of a musketeer; I feel it, sir, and it impels me along, as it were, by force.”

“Hark ye, young man!” cried Jussac, who doubtless, from d’Artagnan’s gestures and the expression of his countenance, had divined his intentions; “you may retire; we permit you; save your skin, and that quickly.”

But d’Artagnan moved not a step.

“You are unquestionably a man of spirit,” said Athos, pressing the young man’s hand.

“Come, come; decide, decide!” exclaimed Jussac.

“We must make up our minds,” said Porthos and Aramis.

“You are truly generous,” said Athos to d’Artagnan.

But all three thought of d’Artagnan’s youth, and feared his inexperience.

“We are but three, and one of us wounded, exclusive of this boy,” remarked Athos; “and yet it will be said that we were four men.”

“Ay, but to retreat!” said Porthos.

“It is difficult,” said Athos.

“Quite impossible!” said Aramis.

D’Artagnan comprehended the cause of their irresolution. “Gentlemen,” said he, “only try me, and I pledge you my honour that I will not leave this spot except as a conqueror.”

“What is your name, my fine fellow?” said Athos.

“D’Artagnan, sir.”

“Well, then, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan, forward!” exclaimed Athos.

“So, you have made up your minds, gentlemen?” cried Jussac for the third time.

“Quite so,” replied Athos.

“And what is your resolve?” demanded Jussac.

“We are about to have the honour of charging you,” replied Aramis, raising his hat with one hand, and drawing his sword with the other.

“Ah! you resist!” cried Jussac.

“Mortdieu! Does that surprise you?”

And the nine combatants rushed upon each other with a fury which did not, however, exclude a kind of method. Athos took Cahusac, one of the cardinal’s favourites; Porthos selected Biscarrat; and Aramis found himself opposed to two adversaries. As for d’Artagnan, he sprang towards Jussac himself.

The heart of the young Gascon throbbed violently, not with fear, but with eagerness. He fought with the fury of an enraged tiger, turning round his adversary, and every moment changing his guard and position. Jussac, as we have before said, was a most skilful and experienced swordsman; nevertheless, he found the utmost difficulty in defending himself against his adversary, who, active and nimble, perpetually deviated from all the received rules of fencing, attacking on all sides at once, and yet at the same time guarding himself like one who had the greatest respect in the world for his own person. At length the struggle was brought to a conclusion by Jussac’s rashness. Furious at being thus held at bay by one whom he regarded as a mere boy, he became less cautious, and committed various indiscretions; whilst d’Artagnan, who, although deficient in practice, had a profound knowledge of the theory of the art, redoubled his agility. Jussac, eager to dispatch him, made a tremendous lunge, at the same time breaking ground; but d’Artagnan parried the thrust, and whilst Jussac recovered himself, he glided like a serpent under his weapon, and passed his sword through his body; Jussac fell heavily on the ground.

D’Artagnan now cast a rapid and anxious glance over the field of battle. Aramis had already killed one of his adversaries, but the other pressed him sharply. He was, however, in very good trim, and could well defend himself. Biscarrat and Porthos had both received wounds, Porthos in the arm, and his adversary in the thigh; but as neither of these wounds was severe, they only fought the more fiercely. Athos, wounded afresh by Cahusac, looked more and more pale, but did not yield an inch; he had merely changed hands, and fought with his left. According to the laws of duelling at that period, d’Artagnan was at liberty to assist any one of his companions; and whilst he sought to ascertain which of them most required his aid, he caught a glance from Athos, which served instead of speech. Athos would have died sooner than call for assistance; but his look plainly denoted how much he required support. D’Artagnan at once comprehended his meaning, and with a single bound he fell on Cahusac’s flank, exclaiming, “Turn, sir guardsman, or I kill you!”

Cahusac did turn, just as Athos, whom his extreme courage had alone sustained, sunk upon one knee. “Hollo, young man!” exclaimed Athos, “do not kill him, I beseech you; I have an old affair to settle with him when I am cured. Disarm him only; deprive him of his sword—that’s it—good, very good!”

This exclamation escaped Athos on perceiving the sword of Cahusac flying from his hand a distance of twenty paces. D’Artagnan and Cahusac both rushed forward to secure the weapon; but d’Artagnan being the most active, reached it first, and placed his foot upon it. Cahusac then went to the guardsman killed by Aramis, seized his rapier, and was returning to d’Artagnan; but on his way he encountered Athos, who during this momentary pause had recovered his breath, and fearing that d’Artagnan might kill his opponent, wished to renew the contest. D’Artagnan perceived that he would offend Athos if he did not permit him to have his own way; and in a few minutes Cahusac fell pierced in the throat. At the same moment Aramis placed the point of his sword at the breast of his fallen adversary, and compelled him to sue for mercy.

Porthos and Biscarrat alone remained fighting. Porthos, whilst fighting, indulged himself in a thousand fantastic jests and humours, asking Biscarrat what time of day it was, and congratulating him on the company his brother had just obtained in the regiment of Navarre. This jesting, however, gained him no advantage; for Biscarrat was one of those indomitable spirits who die, but do not surrender. It was time, however, to stop the fight, as the guard might arrive, and arrest all the combatants, whether wounded or not, whether royalists or cardinalists. Athos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan, therefore, surrounded Biscarrat, and summoned him to surrender. Although alone against all four, and with a wound which had passed through his thigh, Biscarrat refused to yield; but Jussac, raising himself on his elbow, requested him to desist. Biscarrat, however, like d’Artagnan, was a Gascon: he therefore only laughed, and pretended not to hear; and finding time, between the parries, to point with his sword to the ground at his feet—

“Here,” said he, “will Biscarrat die, the sole survivor of those that were with him.”

“But they are four—four against one!” cried Jussac; “yield, I command you!”

“Ah, if you command me, it is another thing,” said Biscarrat; “you are my commander, and I must obey.”

And suddenly springing backwards, he broke his sword across his knee, in order that he might not give it up, threw the pieces over the wall of the convent; and then, crossing his arms, he whistled a cardinalist air.

Bravery is always respected, even in an enemy. The musketeers saluted Biscarrat with their swords, and returned them to their scabbards. D’Artagnan did the same; and then, assisted by Biscarrat, the only one who remained on his legs, he carried Jussac, Cahusac, and that one of the adversaries of Aramis who was only wounded, under the porch of the convent. The fourth, as we have said, was dead. They then rang the bell, and confiscating four out of the five swords, they set off, intoxicated with joy, towards M. de Treville’s hotel. They proceeded arm in arm, occupying the whole breadth of the street; and as they detained every musketeer they met, the march soon became like a triumphal procession. D’Artagnan’s heart was in a delirium of exultation, as he marched between Athos and Porthos.

“If I am not yet a musketeer,” said he to his new friends, whilst passing the threshold of M. de Treville’s hotel, “I am at least next door to one. Is it not so?”

CHAPTER 6 His Majesty King Louis the Thirteenth

The affair made a great noise. M. de Treville strongly censured his musketeers in public; but privately they heard only his congratulations. As, however, it was essential that no time should be lost in gaining the king, M. de Treville hastened to the Louvre. But he was too late; the king was closeted with the cardinal, and M. de Treville was informed that his majesty was engaged, and could not then see any one. In the evening, M. de Treville returned. The king was at play, and was winning; and his majesty, being very covetous, was in an excellent humour. Therefore, as soon as he saw M. de Treville, he exclaimed—

“Come here, my captain, that I may chide you. Are you aware that his eminence came to complain to me of your musketeers, and with so much emotion as to be indisposed? Well, really, these musketeers of yours are perfect devils—thorough hang-dogs!”

“No, sire,” replied M. de Treville, who at the first glance saw the turn the affair was likely to take. “No, on the contrary, they are good creatures, gentle as lambs, and who, I am confident, have only one wish, that their swords should never leave their scabbards except in time of war. But what are they to do? the guards of the cardinal are continually seeking opportunities of quarrelling with them; and, for the honour of the regiment, the poor young men are obliged to defend themselves.”

“Hark ye, M. de Treville,” said the king; “hark ye! Is this a religious fraternity—these men of yours—that you are speaking of? Truly, my dear captain, I am half inclined to deprive you of your command, and bestow it upon Mademoiselle de Chemerault, to whom I have promised an abbey. Do not suppose, however, that I give implicit credence to this simple story of yours. I am called Louis the Just, M. de Treville; and soon, very soon, we shall see—”

“And it is because I confide in that justice, sire, that I shall calmly and patiently await your majesty’s good pleasure.”

“Wait then, sir, wait then,” said the king, “and it will not be long.”

In fact, at that moment the chances of the game turned against the king, who began to lose what he had before gained. Therefore he was not sorry to find an excuse (to use an expression of the gaming table, of which we confess we know not the origin) for making Charlemagne. The king therefore rose, and putting into his pocket the money which was before him, and most of which he had won—

“La Vieuville,” said he, “take my place. I must talk with M. de Treville on an affair of importance. Ah! I had eighty louis before me: lay down the same sum, that those who have lost may not want their revenge. Justice above all things!”

Then turning towards M. de Treville, and walking with him towards a recess in one of the windows—

“Well, sir,” continued he, “you affirm that it is the guards of his eminence who seek quarrels with your musketeers?”

“Yes, sire; invariably.”

“Well, and how did this affair happen? Relate the facts; for you know, my dear captain, a judge must hear both parties.”

“Oh! by my faith, in the most simple and natural manner: three of my best soldiers, whom your majesty knows by name, and whose services you have often appreciated, and who, I can assure your majesty, are wholly devoted to your service—three of my best soldiers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, had made a party of pleasure with a young Gascon, a volunteer, whom I had introduced to them the same morning. The party was to be held at St. Germain’s, I believe; and the rendezvous was fixed at Carmes-Deschaux, when it was interrupted by de Jussac, Cahusac, Biscarrat, and two other musketeers of the cardinal who doubtless did not assemble there in such force without some intention in opposition to the edicts.”

“Ah! you give me ground for a conjecture,” said the king; “doubtless they came there to have an affair of honour.”

“I do not accuse them, sire, but I leave your majesty to judge what five armed men could be doing in a spot so retired as is the neighbourhood of the convent.”

“Very true, Treville; yes, you are right.”

“But, when they saw my musketeers, they changed their intentions, and forgot their individual and personal hatred, to indulge their enmity towards our corps; for your majesty well knows that the musketeers, who are wholly for the king, and nothing but the king, are the natural enemies of the guards, who are for the cardinal alone.”

“Yes, Treville,” said the king sorrowfully; “and it is a sad thing, believe me, thus to see two parties in France—two royal heads, as it were, under one crown. But this must be brought to an end. You say, then, that the guards sought a difference with the musketeers?”

“I say it is probable that this was the case, but I do not swear to it, sire. Your majesty well knows how difficult it is to discover the truth, unless, indeed, one were gifted with that admirable penetration which has caused Louis XIII. to be named the Just.”

“There again you are right, Treville. But your musketeers were not alone; there was a boy with them.”

“Yes, sire, and a wounded man; so that three of the king’s musketeers, of whom one was wounded, and this boy, not only made head against five of the most formidable of the cardinal’s guards, but even bore four of them to the earth.”

“Why, it is a complete victory!” exclaimed the king, radiant with joy—“a most complete victory!”

“Yes, sire, as complete as that of the bridge of Ce.”

“Four men—of whom one was wounded, and another a boy—do you say?”

“A stripling; but who behaved so nobly on this occasion, that I shall take the liberty of recommending him to your majesty.”

“What is his name?”

“D’Artagnan, sire; he is the son of one of my oldest friends—the son of a man who was engaged in the Partizan war on the side of the king your father, of glorious memory.”

“And you say this youth acquitted himself bravely? Tell me all about it, Treville, for you know how I love to hear of war and combats.”

And the king placed himself in an attentive posture, at the same time twirling his moustache in a military manner.

“Sire,” replied M. de Treville, “as I have already told you, M. d’Artagnan is almost a child; and as he has not the honour of being a musketeer, he was in plain clothes. The cardinal’s guards, perceiving his youth and also that he was a civilian, invited him to retire before they commenced their assault.”

“Thus we may clearly perceive, Treville,” interrupted the king, “that it was the guards who began the attack.”

“Most assuredly, sire, there cannot be a doubt on the subject. They therefore warned him to retire; but he replied that as he was at heart a musketeer, and wholly devoted to his majesty, he should remain with the musketeers.”

“Brave youth!” murmured the king.

“And he did remain with them; and in him your majesty has the resolute and valiant champion who gave Jussac that terrific sword thrust which has so much enraged the cardinal.”

“He who wounded Jussac?” exclaimed the king. “He—a boy! Treville, it is impossible!”

“It is as I have the honour to inform your majesty.”

“Jussac! one of the best duellists in the realm!”

“Yes, sire; but he has now found his master.”

“Treville, I must see this young man,” said Louis; “I must see him; and if I can do anything—However, we will think about that.”

“When will your majesty condescend to receive him?”

“Tomorrow, at twelve, Treville.”

“Shall I bring him alone?”

“No, bring the other three. I wish to thank them all at the same time. Men so brave are rare, Treville, and such devotion ought to be rewarded.”

“At twelve, sire, we will be at the Louvre.”

“By the private staircase, Treville—by the private staircase; it is unnecessary to let the cardinal know it.”

“Yes, sire.”

“You understand, Treville; an edict is always an edict; at all events, fighting is forbidden by the law.”

“But this combat,” said Treville, “is altogether different from the common duels: it was a sudden brawl; and the proof of it is, that there were five of the cardinal’s guards against three of the musketeers and M. d’Artagnan.”

“It is quite true,” said the king; “yet, nevertheless, Treville, come by the private staircase.”

Treville smiled; but conceiving that he had already secured an important advantage, by thus inducing the pupil to rebel against his master, he respectfully saluted the king, and, with his permission, made his retiral.

The same evening the three musketeers were apprised of the honour intended for them. As they had long known the king, they were not much enchanted by the news; but d’Artagnan, with his Gascon imagination, saw in it his future fortunes, and passed the night amid golden dreams. By eight in the morning he was with Athos, whom he found dressed, and ready to go out.

As they were not to see the king until twelve o’clock, and Athos had engaged to meet Porthos and Aramis at a tennis-court, near the Luxembourg stables, to play a match of tennis, he invited d’Artagnan to join them. Although ignorant of the game, which he had never played, d’Artagnan accepted the invitation, not knowing how otherwise to dispose of his time in the interval. Porthos and Aramis were already there, knocking the balls about. Athos, who was very skilful in all athletic games, went to one side with d’Artagnan, and challenged them. But at the first movement which he made, although he played with his left hand, he found that his wound was too fresh to permit such an exertion. D’Artagnan, therefore, remained alone; and as he declared that he was too unskilful to play a regular game, they only sent the balls about, without counting the points. One of these balls, however, driven by the Herculean hand of Porthos, passed so near d’Artagnan as to satisfy him that, had it hit him full in the face, instead of going on one side, his royal audience would have been lost, as, in all probability, he would thereby have been rendered unfit to be presented to the king. Now, since, in his Gascon imagination, all his fortune depended upon this audience, he politely saluted Porthos and Aramis, declaring that he would not renew the game until he was up to their standard, and then took his station near the ropes and the gallery.

Unfortunately for d’Artagnan, amongst the spectators there was one of the cardinal’s guards, who was irritated by the previous night’s defeat of his companions, and had resolved to take the first opportunity of avenging it. He now believed that this opportunity had arrived, and addressing a bystander—

“It is no wonder,” said he, “that this young man is afraid of the ball; he is, doubtless, a musketeer recruit.”

D’Artagnan turned as if bitten by a serpent, and looked fiercely at the guardsman who had uttered this insolent remark.

“I’faith,” continued the latter, proudly curling his moustache, “you may look at me as much as you please, my little gentleman. What I have said, I mean.”

“And since what you have said explains itself,” replied d’Artagnan, in a low voice, “I will thank you to follow me.”

“Ah! indeed! and when, pray?” said the guardsman, with the same air of mockery.

“Immediately, if you please.”

“Doubtless you know who I am?”

“I have not the slightest idea; and, what is more, I do not care.”

“And yet you are wrong; for if you knew my name, perhaps you would be less courageous.”

“Indeed! and pray what is your name?” said d’Artagnan.

“Bernajoux, at your service.”

“Well, M. Bernajoux,” replied d’Artagnan with the utmost tranquillity, “I shall await you at the gate.”

“Proceed, sir; I will follow you.”

“But do not be in too great haste, sir,” said d’Artagnan, “lest it should be perceived that we go out together; for, considering how we are about to be engaged, you must be aware that too many witnesses might prove inconvenient.”

“There is some sense in that,” replied the guardsman, much surprised that his name had not produced a greater effect on the young man.

The name of Bernajoux was indeed known to everyone, except d’Artagnan; for he was one of those who constantly figured in the daily brawls which all the edicts of the king and the cardinal could not suppress.

Porthos and Aramis were so much occupied by their game, and Athos was watching them so attentively, that they did not even perceive the departure of their young companion, who, as he had promised, waited a moment at the door for his opponent. In fact, d’Artagnan had no time to lose, considering the expected audience, which was fixed for twelve o’clock. He therefore cast his eyes around, and seeing that there was no one in the street—

“Faith, sir,” said he to his adversary, “although your name is Bernajoux, it is very fortunate for you that you have to deal with a musketeer recruit only. However, be content: I will do my best. On your guard, sir!”

“But,” said he whom d’Artagnan thus addressed, “it appears to me this place is badly chosen, and that we should be better behind the abbey of St. Germain, or in the Pre-aux-Clercs.”

“True enough,” replied d’Artagnan, “but, unfortunately, my time is precious, as I have an important engagement precisely at twelve; therefore draw, sir, draw!”

Bernajoux was not the man to wait the repetition of such a compliment. In an instant, therefore, his sword glittered in his hand, and he rushed upon his adversary, whom, on account of his extreme youth, he hoped to intimidate.

But d’Artagnan had served his apprenticeship the evening before, and now fresh, and elated with his victory, as well as inflamed with hopes of future favour, he was fully resolved not to recede an inch. The two swords were therefore engaged, even to the guard; and as d’Artagnan kept his ground firmly, his adversary was obliged to retreat a single step. By this movement Bernajoux’s sword deviated from “opposition,” and d’Artagnan, seizing the opportunity, made a lunge which wounded his adversary in the shoulder. He immediately stepped back one pace, and raised his sword; but Bernajoux, declaring that it was nothing, made a blind thrust at d’Artagnan, and impaled himself upon his sword. Nevertheless, as Bernajoux neither fell, nor declared himself vanquished, but merely retreated towards the hotel of M. de la Tremouille, in whose service he had a relative, d’Artagnan, ignorant of the severity of his adversary’s wound, pressed him closely, and doubtless would have despatched him by a third thrust, had not the clash of the rapiers reached the tennis-court, from which now rushed, sword in hand, two of the guardsman’s friends (who had heard him exchange words with d’Artagnan), and fell upon the conqueror. But Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, now also joined the fray; and at the moment when the two guardsmen attacked their young comrade, forced them to turn. At that instant Bernajoux fell; and as the guards were then only two against four, they began to cry out—“To our aid! hotel de la Tremouille!” At this cry, all the inmates of the hotel rushed out, and fell upon the four friends; who, on their side, exclaimed “Help, musketeers!”

The latter cry was very common; for it was known that the musketeers hated the cardinal, and they were beloved for the very hatred they bore towards his eminence. Hence, in those quarrels, the guards of all the other regiments, excepting those actually belonging to the Red Duke, as Aramis had designated the cardinal, generally sided with the king’s musketeers. Of three guardsmen, who were passing, of the company of M. des Essarts, two came to the assistance of the four friends, whilst the third ran to the hotel of M. de Treville, crying, “Help! musketeers, help!” As usual, M. de Treville’s hotel was full of soldiers, who ran to the assistance of their comrades, and the battle became general. But the superiority of force was with the musketeers; and the cardinal’s guards, with M. de la Tremouille’s people, retired into the hotel, the doors of which they secured in time to exclude their opponents. As for the wounded man, he had been carried away at first, and, as we have said, in very bad plight.

Excitement amongst the musketeers and their allies was at its height, and they deliberated whether they should not set fire to the hotel, to punish the insolence of M. de la Tremouille’s retainers, who had presumed to charge the king’s musketeers. The proposition had been made and received with enthusiasm, when fortunately it struck eleven o’clock; and d’Artagnan and his companions, remembering their audience, and not wishing a feat so daring to be performed without their aid, succeeded in quelling the commotion; they therefore contented themselves with throwing some stones at the door, and then left the place. Besides, those whom they regarded as their leaders had just left them to proceed towards the hotel of M. de Treville, who, already aware of this fresh insult, awaited their arrival.

“Quick, to the Louvre!” said he; “to the Louvre, without losing one moment; and let us endeavour to see the king before the cardinal prejudices him. We will narrate the affair as a consequence of that of yesterday, and the two will be disposed of together.”

M. de Treville, accompanied by the four young men, hastened towards the Louvre; but, to the great surprise of the captain of the musketeers, he was informed that the king had gone to the chase in the forest of St. Germain. M. de Treville caused this intelligence to be twice repeated, and each time his companions observed his countenance become darker.

“Had his majesty formed the intention of hunting, yesterday?” demanded he.

“No, your excellency,” replied the valet. “The master of the hounds came this morning to announce that he had roused a stag; at first the king said he would not go, but subsequently he could not resist the pleasure which the chase promised him, and he set out after dinner.”

“And has the king seen the cardinal?” demanded M. de Treville.

“In all probability,” replied the valet, “for this morning I saw the horses harnessed to the cardinal’s carriage; I inquired where it was going, and was told to St. Germain.”

“We are anticipated,” said M. de Treville. “I shall see the king this evening; but, as for you, I would not counsel you at present to attempt it.”

The advice was too reasonable; especially as that of a man who knew the king too well, to be opposed by the young men. M. de Treville therefore requested them to return to their respective homes, and await his orders.

On reaching his hotel, it occurred to M. de Treville that it would be prudent to be in advance with his complaint. He therefore despatched a letter to M. de la Tremouille, requesting him to dismiss from his house the cardinal’s guards; and, further, to reprimand his own people for charging the musketeers. M. de la Tremouille, however, being already prejudiced by his equerry, whose relative Bernajoux was, replied that neither M. de Treville nor his musketeers had a right to complain, but, on the contrary, he himself; the musketeers having not only attacked and wounded his people, but also threatened to burn his mansion. Now, as a dispute between two such great men might last a long time, each being likely to adhere obstinately to his opinion, M. de Treville thought of an expedient to bring it to a close; and this was to go himself to M. de la Tremouille. He therefore repaired to his hotel, and caused himself to be announced.

The two noblemen saluted each other politely, for, although they were not friends, they yet esteemed each other. They were both brave and honourable men; and as M. de la Tremouille was a protestant, and therefore rarely saw the king, he intrigued on no side, and had contracted few prejudices in his social relations. On the present occasion, however, his reception of his visitor, though polite, was colder than usual.

“Sir,” said M. de Treville, “we each believe that we have cause of complaint against the other, and I am now here to see if we cannot together clear up the matter.”

“Most willingly,” replied M. de la Tremouille, “but I tell you beforehand that I have full information, and am satisfied all the blame rests with your musketeers.”

“You are too just a man, sir, and too reasonable,” observed M. de Treville, “not to accept the proposition I shall now make to you.”

“Proceed, sir; I will hear it.”

“How is M. Bernajoux, the relative of your equerry?”

“Why, sir,” replied Tremouille, “he is very ill indeed. Besides the wound which he received in the arm, and which is not dangerous, he has also received another, which has passed through his lungs; so that the physician gives but a poor account of him.”