The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas - [Full Version] - (ANNOTATED)

  D’Artagnan had more than once told his friends about his adventure with the stranger in Meung, and the stranger’s meeting with the beautiful traveler in which he’d appeared to confide an important mission to her. It was Athos’s opinion that d’Artagnan had lost his letter in the scuffle. A gentleman, he said—and, based on d’Artagnan’s description of the stranger, he must have been a gentleman—a gentleman would be incapable of such a base act as stealing a letter. Porthos had seen nothing in the story but an amorous rendezvous between a lady and a cavalier, a meeting that had been disrupted by the appearance of d’Artagnan with his yellow horse. Aramis had said that these sorts of things were always mysterious, and it was best not to sift through them.

  Athos and Porthos understood, then, from d’Artagnan’s brief explanation, that this was the matter at hand. They assumed that after either overtaking his man or losing sight of him d’Artagnan would return home, so they continued up the stairs.

  When they entered d’Artagnan’s chamber, they found it empty. Afraid of what would happen when the young man caught the stranger, and in accord with how he’d described his own character, the landlord had thought it high time to make himself scarce.

  IX

  D’Artagnan Begins to Show Himself

  As Athos and Porthos expected, after half an hour d’Artagnan returned. Once again he’d lost the stranger, who had disappeared seemingly as if by magic. D’Artagnan had run, sword in hand, through all the neighboring streets, but had found no one who resembled his man of Meung. Then he finally did what he probably should have done in the first place and knocked at the doorway where he’d seen the stranger standing. After he pounded on the door-knocker ten or twelve times without an answer, a neighbor, attracted by the commotion, stuck his head out his window and told d’Artagnan that the house had been closed up and empty for six months.

  While d’Artagnan was running through the streets and knocking on doors, Aramis had joined his two companions at his lodging, so when he returned home d’Artagnan found their society was complete. “Well?” said the three musketeers together as d’Artagnan entered, dripping with sweat and livid with anger.

  “Well!” he cried as he threw his sword on the bed. “This man is the devil himself. He’s disappeared like a phantom—like a shadow— like a specter!”

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” Athos asked Porthos.

  Porthos shrugged. “I don’t believe in what I haven’t seen, and since I’ve never seen a ghost, I don’t believe in them.”

  “The Bible requires us to believe in them,” said Aramis. “The shade of Samuel appeared to Saul, you know. I’d be sorry to see you cast doubt on such an article of faith, Porthos.”

  “In any case, man or devil, illusion or reality, this man was born to be my nemesis,” d’Artagnan said. “His escape has cost us a lovely piece of business, Messieurs, an affair worth as much as a hundred pistoles—maybe more.”

  “How’s that?” said Porthos and Aramis at the same time. Athos, laconic as always, merely interrogated d’Artagnan with a look.

  “Planchet,” said d’Artagnan to his servant, who was eavesdropping just outside the half-open door, “go down to my landlord, Monsieur Bonacieux, and tell him to send up a half-dozen bottles of Beaugency wine; it’s my favorite.”

  “Oh ho! So you have open credit with your landlord?” asked Porthos.

  “Yes,” answered d’Artagnan, “a standing account as of today, and believe me, if the wine is bad, we’ll send for him to find a better one.”

  “One must use and not abuse,” said Aramis sententiously.

  “I always said that d’Artagnan had the most wits of any of us,” stated Athos. D’Artagnan acknowledged this compliment with a bow, and Athos returned to his accustomed silence.

  “But see here, what is all this about?” asked Porthos.

  “Yes,” said Aramis, “let us in on the secret, mon cher ami—unless the honor of some lady is involved, in which case you’d best keep it to yourself.”

  “Don’t worry,” said d’Artagnan, “no one’s honor is compromised in what I have to tell you.” He related word for word the conversation between him and his host, and his conviction that the man who’d carried off his landlord’s wife was identical with the stranger he’d crossed swords with at the Inn of the Jolly Miller.

  “Your affair shows promise,” said Athos, after tasting the wine like a connoisseur and nodding his approval, “and one might perhaps extract from this valiant mercer as much as fifty or sixty pistoles. But are fifty or sixty pistoles worth the risk of four heads?”

  “Don’t forget there’s a woman in this affair,” said d’Artagnan, “a woman abducted, a woman endangered and maybe tortured, and all because she is loyal to her mistress!”

  “Take care, d’Artagnan, take care,” said Aramis. “You’re allowing yourself to be caught up in the fate of this Madame Bonacieux. Woman was created for our ruin, and from her come all our miseries.” At these words, Athos knit his brow and gnawed his lips.

  “You mistake me,” said d’Artagnan. “It’s not Madame Bonacieux I’m concerned about, but rather the queen, whom the king abandons, the cardinal persecutes, and who must look on as the heads of her friends fall, one by one.”

  “Why must she love what we hate the most in the world, the Spanish and the English?” said Porthos.

  “Spain is her homeland,” said d’Artagnan simply. “It’s only natural she should love the Spanish, who are children of the same soil as she. As to your second reproach, I’ve heard that it’s not the English she loves, but an Englishman.”

  “Aye! My faith,” said Athos, “I must say this Englishman is worthy of being loved. I’ve never seen one with a grander and more noble air than he has.”

  “Not to mention that he dresses like no one else,” said Porthos. “I was at the Louvre the day he scattered his pearls, and by God! I grabbed up two that I sold for ten pistoles apiece. What about you, Aramis—do you know him?”

  “As well as you, Messieurs, for I was among those who arrested him in the garden at Amiens,46 where I was introduced by Monsieur de Putanges, the queen’s equerry. I was just out of seminary at the time; it seemed to me the episode must have been very cruel for the king.”

  “Nonetheless,” said d’Artagnan, “if I knew where the Duke of Buckingham was, I’d gladly take him by the hand and conduct him to the queen, if only to spite the cardinal; for our true, our only, our eternal enemy, Messieurs, is the cardinal, and if we can find a way to play him a nasty trick, I confess that I’d happily risk my head.”

  Athos looked thoughtful. “Didn’t the mercer tell you, d’Artagnan, that the queen believed someone sought to summon Buckingham by a forged message?”

  “So she fears.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Aramis.

  “What?” asked Porthos.

  “Carry on—I’m trying to remember something that might be relevant.”

  D’Artagnan said, “I’m convinced that this abduction of the queen’s woman is connected with this possible presence of Monsieur de Buckingham in Paris.”

  “The Gascon is full of ideas,” said Porthos with admiration.

  “I like to hear him talk,” said Athos. “His accent amuses me.”

  “Messieurs,” interrupted Aramis, “listen to this.”

  “We’re listening,” said his three friends.

  “Yesterday I found myself at the house of a doctor of theology whom I sometimes consult for my studies . . .”

  Athos smiled.

  “He lives in a quiet neighborhood,” continued Aramis. “His tastes and his profession require it. Now just as I was leaving his house . . .” Here Aramis stopped.

  “Well?” demanded Porthos. “At the moment you were leaving his house?”

  Aramis looked uncertain, like a man who, in the middle of telling a lie, runs into an unexpected complication; but the eyes and ears of his three companions were on him, and there was no way to retreat.

  “This doctor
has a niece,” continued Aramis.

  “Ah! He has a niece,” said Porthos with satisfaction.

  “A very respectable lady!” said Aramis.

  The three friends began to laugh.

  “God’s death! If you laugh or if you doubt me, I’ll tell you nothing,” said Aramis.

  Athos half-bowed and said, “We believe like loyal Mahometans, and are as mute as catafalques.”

  “Then I continue,” sniffed Aramis. “This niece sometimes visits her uncle. I found her there yesterday, by chance, and could do no less than offer to conduct her to her carriage.”

  “Ah! She has a carriage, this doctor’s niece?” interrupted Porthos, one of whose faults was an inability to keep his mouth shut. “She’s well-connected, then. Not bad, my friend!”

  “Porthos,” replied Aramis, “I have already had to observe more than once that you are very indiscreet, and that it damages your reputation among the ladies.”

  “Messieurs, Messieurs,” cried d’Artagnan, who began to see where this was going, “the thing is serious! Can we leave out the jokes? Go on, Aramis, go on.”

  “We were accosted by a tall, dark man with the manners of a gentleman—a man, it seems, much like yours, d’Artagnan.”

  “The same, perhaps!” he said.

  “It’s possible,” continued Aramis. “He approached me, accompanied by five or six men who followed ten paces behind him. In the most polite tone, he said, ‘Monsieur le Duc, and you, Madame,’ addressing the lady, who had taken my arm . . .”

  “The doctor’s niece?”

  “Silence, Porthos!” said Athos. “You are insupportable.”

  “The man continued, ‘I must request you to enter my carriage, and to do so without making the least noise or resistance.’”

  “He took you for Buckingham!” cried d’Artagnan.

  “So I believe,” replied Aramis.

  “But the lady?” asked Porthos.

  “He took her for the queen!” said d’Artagnan.

  “Just so,” responded Aramis.

  “The Gascon is the devil!” said Athos. “Nothing escapes him.” “In fact,” said Porthos, “Aramis is the same height as Buckingham, and is shaped much like the handsome duke; but still, it seems to me that in the outfit of a musketeer . . .”

  “I wore a very large cloak,” said Aramis.

  “In early September? The devil!” said Porthos. “Is this doctor afraid you might be recognized?”

  Athos shook his head. “I can see how the spy was taken in by the figure, but the face . . .”

  “I had a very large hat,” said Aramis.

  “My God,” laughed Porthos, “what precautions for studying theology!”

  “Messieurs, Messieurs,” said d’Artagnan, “these jokes just waste time. Let’s scatter and search for the mercer’s wife. She’s the key to this intrigue.”

  “A woman of such inferior rank! Do you really believe that, d’Artagnan?” said Porthos, curling his lip with contempt.

  “Haven’t I told you? She’s the goddaughter of La Porte, the queen’s confidential valet. For all we know, Her Majesty may be deliberately relying on a person of low station. Higher heads are more visible, and the cardinal has good eyes.”

  “All right,” said Porthos. “Then set a price with this mercer, and a good one.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” said d’Artagnan. “I have a feeling our reward will come from other hands than his.”

  Suddenly footsteps came pounding up the stairs, the door opened with a crash, and the hapless mercer dashed into the chamber where the musketeers were taking counsel.

  “Messieurs!” he cried. “Save me, in the name of heaven, save me! There are four men who’ve come to arrest me! Save me, save me!”

  Porthos and Aramis leaped up. “Wait!” cried d’Artagnan. “Put up your swords! It’s not courage we need here, it’s prudence.”

  “But, really,” protested Porthos, “we can’t just let them . . .”

  “You will listen to d’Artagnan on this,” said Athos. “I say again, he has the sharpest wits of all of us, and I fully intend to follow his lead. Do as you will, d’Artagnan.”

  At this moment, four city guards appeared at the door of the antechamber. Seeing four musketeers with their swords at their sides, they hesitated to come any further.

  “Enter, Messieurs, enter,” cried d’Artagnan. “You are welcome in my house; we’re all loyal servants of the king and of Monsieur le Cardinal.”

  “Then, Messieurs, you will not oppose the execution of our orders?” asked the one who appeared to be the leader of the squad.

  “On the contrary, Messieurs, we’re ready to lend a hand, if needed.”

  “What did he say?” muttered Porthos.

  “You’re a simpleton,” said Athos. “Silence!”

  “But you promised me . . .” whimpered the poor mercer.

  “We can’t save you unless we remain at liberty,” d’Artagnan said rapidly in a low voice. “If we appear to defend you, we’ll be arrested as well.”

  “Yes, but it seems to me . . .”

  “Come in, Messieurs, come in,” said d’Artagnan loudly. “I have no reason to defend monsieur. I’ve seen him today for the first time, and as for why, he can tell you himself: he came to collect my rent. Isn’t that so, Monsieur Bonacieux? Answer!”

  “That’s the honest truth,” cried the mercer, “but monsieur doesn’t tell you . . .”

  “Silence about me, about my friends, and about the queen above all, or you’re so lost that no one can save you,” d’Artagnan hissed. “Come, come, Messieurs, take this man away!”

  And d’Artagnan pushed the stunned mercer into the hands of the guards, while saying to him, “You’re a scoundrel, mon cher. You, come to demand money of me—of me! Of a musketeer! To prison, Messieurs! I say again, take him to prison, and keep him under lock and key as long as possible. That will give me time to pay his miserable debt.”

  The city guards overwhelmed them with thanks. As they began to lead away their trembling prey, d’Artagnan clapped the squad leader’s shoulder. “Won’t you join me in a drink?” he said, filling two glasses of the Beaugency wine he had from the generosity of Monsieur Bonacieux.

  “It would be an honor for me,” said the squad leader, “and I accept with gratitude.”

  “Then, to your health, Monsieur . . . how are you named?”

  “Boisrenard.”

  “Monsieur Boisrenard!”

  “To your health, my gentleman. And how are you named, if you please?”

  “D’Artagnan.”

  “To yours, Monsieur d’Artagnan!”

  “And above all others,” cried d’Artagnan, as if carried away with enthusiasm, “to that of the king and the cardinal.”

  The squad leader might have doubted d’Artagnan’s sincerity if the wine had been bad; but the wine was good, so he was convinced.

  “What devilish villainy was that?” said Porthos, once the squad leader had rejoined his companions and the four friends found themselves alone. “The shame of it! Four musketeers allow an unfortunate man who asked for aid to be arrested from among them! And then, worst of all, for a gentleman to raise a glass with a mere bailiff!”

  “Porthos,” said Aramis, “Athos has already told you that you’re a simpleton, and I agree with him. D’Artagnan, you’re a great man, and when you occupy Monsieur de Tréville’s place, I’ll ask for your influence to get me an abbey.”

  “I’m completely lost,” said Porthos. “You mean you approve of what d’Artagnan’s done?”

  “Parbleu! I should think so!” said Athos. “Not only do I approve of what he’s done, I congratulate him on it.”

  “And now, Messieurs,” said d’Artagnan, without bothering to explain his conduct to Porthos, “all for one, and one for all—that’s our motto, isn’t it?”

  “But . . .” said Porthos.

  “Extend your hand and swear!” cried Athos and Aramis at the same time.

  Bow
ing under pressure, but still muttering to himself, Porthos extended his hand, and the four friends repeated in one voice the slogan dictated by d’Artagnan: “All for one, and one for all.”

  “Good! Now let’s all retire to our homes,” said d’Artagnan, as if he’d done nothing but command all his life. “But beware! For from this moment on, we’re at odds with the cardinal!”

  X

  A Seventeenth-Century Mousetrap

  The mousetrap is no recent invention. When the earliest societies had a need for security, they invented the police—and the police, in turn, invented mousetraps. But the reader may be unfamiliar with police jargon, so it would be best to explain.

  When the resident of a house is arrested for a crime, that arrest is kept secret, and four or five men are quietly placed inside the house. When someone knocks on the door, he is admitted—and arrested. In this way the police can lay their hands on all the habitués of a house within two or three days. And that is a mousetrap.

  They’d made a mousetrap of Master Bonacieux’s apartment, and anyone who entered was taken and interrogated by the cardinal’s people. A private entrance and staircase led to the first floor apartment where d’Artagnan lived, so he could receive visitors without fear of their arrest.

  In any event, his three musketeer friends were his only visitors. They’d each undertaken their own quest for information about the missing Madame Bonacieux, but had found and discovered nothing. Athos had even gone so far as to question Monsieur de Tréville, which had surprised the captain, given the habitual reticence of his worthy musketeer. But Tréville knew nothing: only that, the last time he’d seen the cardinal, the king, and the queen, the cardinal was preoccupied, the king looked nervous, and the queen’s red eyes showed she’d spent the night either wakeful or crying. This last didn’t count for much, as the queen, since her marriage, had often cried or lain awake. Tréville just reminded Athos of his duty to the king, and moreover to the queen, and asked him to make the same recommendation to his comrades.

  As for d’Artagnan, he had converted his chamber into an observation post, and never left his house. From the windows he watched all those who arrived downstairs and were taken. He’d removed several tiles from his floor and pried up the plank beneath, so only a thin ceiling separated him from the chamber below. When the bailiffs interrogated their prisoners, he heard everything that passed between the inquisitors and the accused.