It was no shame for a man to make his way with the help of women. Those who were only beautiful gave of their beauty, which is doubtless the origin of the proverb, “The most beautiful girl in the world can give no more than she has.” Those who were rich gave of their wealth, and many a hero of that gallant epoch would never have won his spurs in the first place, nor his battles thereafter, without the heavy purse that his mistress had attached to his saddlebow.
D’Artagnan had nothing. His mantle of provincial diffidence had been blown to the winds by the unorthodox counsels of his three musketeer friends. In d’Artagnan’s mind, his life in Paris was like that of a soldier on campaign, no less than if he’d been at war in Flanders:48 conquer the Spaniard there, the woman here. He was in enemy territory, and had to live by what spoils he could take.
However, at this moment d’Artagnan was moved by a nobler, more selfless sentiment. The mercer had told him he was rich, and the young man could guess that with a dolt like Monsieur Bona-cieux for a husband, the wife must hold the purse strings. But the feelings Madame Bonacieux inspired in d’Artagnan far outweighed any financial considerations. Outweighed them, but didn’t eradicate them: to find that a young woman, beautiful, graceful, and spirited, was rich as well, only augmented the first bloom of love.
Wealth enables the purchase of all those little whimsies that are so becoming to beauty. A fine white stocking, a silk dress, a lace collar, a delicate slipper, or a crisp new ribbon won’t make an ugly woman pretty, but they can make a pretty woman beautiful. And wealth beautifies a woman’s hands—for a woman’s hands must remain idle to remain beautiful.
D’Artagnan, obviously, was no millionaire. He hoped to be one someday, but in his mind the date when he would reach that happy state was still far off. In the meantime, how miserable it would be to see his ladylove pining for those thousand nothings that constitute female happiness, and to be powerless to provide her those thousand nothings! At least, when a woman is rich and her lover is not, those things he can’t buy her she can buy for herself. Usually these presents to herself are paid for with her husband’s money, though it’s rarely to him that she’s grateful.
D’Artagnan was prepared to be the most tender lover, but at the same time he was determined to continue to be a most devoted friend, so though preoccupied with his amorous plans for the mercer’s wife, he didn’t forget his three comrades. The pretty Madame Bonacieux was just the woman to promenade beside in the Saint-Denis countryside, or at the Fair of Saint-Germain, in the company of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. D’Artagnan would be proud to show off such a conquest to them. Of course, he’d noticed that after walking for a while, one is always joined by hunger. How pleasant it would be to conclude such an outing with one of those charming little dinners where a man felt on one side a friend’s hand, and on the other a mistress’s foot. Moreover, d’Artagnan would become his friends’ savior in hard times, thanks to the generosity of his mistress.
And what of Monsieur Bonacieux, whom d’Artagnan had thrust into the hands of the bailiffs while promising, in an undertone, to save him? It must be confessed that he never crossed d’Artagnan’s mind—or if he did, it was with the thought that it was just as well that he was where he was, wherever that might be. Love is the most selfish of all the passions.
(But let the reader rest assured that if d’Artagnan had forgotten his landlord—or conveniently overlooked him—the author has not, and knows just where he is. However, for now, let’s imitate the amorous Gascon. As for the worthy mercer, we’ll return to him later.)
D’Artagnan, dreaming of the future course of his new love, smiling at the stars and even, sometimes, speaking to them, drifted west to the edge of the faubourg and then came back up the Rue du Cherche-Midi—or Chasse-Midi, as it was then called. He realized he was in Aramis’s neighborhood and decided to drop in on his friend, to explain why he’d sent Planchet around earlier with that urgent message summoning him to the mousetrap. If Aramis had been at home when Planchet had arrived, he’d doubtless run to the Rue des Fossoyeurs. Maybe he’d encountered his two other comrades, who must have had no more idea than he why they’d been sent for. This imposition called for an explanation—at least, that’s what d’Artagnan said aloud. But to himself he added that it would give him an opportunity to talk to someone about pretty little Madame Bonacieux, of whom his mind, if not his heart, was already quite full. First love brings such a gush of joy that, if it doesn’t find a way to overflow, the lover feels as if he’ll drown.
Paris had been dark for two hours, and the streets were nearly deserted. Eleven o’clock echoed in the mild air from all the belfries of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. D’Artagnan followed an alley not yet called the Rue d’Assas, inhaling the heady scents borne on the night breeze from dew-freshened gardens along the Rue de Vaugirard. From far off, muffled by shutters and distance, came the sound of drinking songs from the cabarets along the Pré-aux-Clercs. D’Artagnan turned right, up the Rue des Canettes, and crossed the Place Saint-Sulpice to where the street became the Rue Férou. Aramis’s house was on the Rue de Vaugirard49 between the Rue Férou and the Rue des Fossoyeurs.
D’Artagnan had just turned onto the Rue de Vaugirard and could already see the door of his friend’s house, shrouded under a vast umbrella of sycamores and clematis, when something like a shadow appeared to detach itself from the darkness of the Rue des Fossoyeurs. This something was enveloped in a cloak, and at first d’Artagnan thought it was a man, but by its small stature and uncertain step he soon recognized it for a woman. It seemed she wasn’t sure which house she wanted: she looked around, stopped, retraced her steps, and then came back again. D’Artagnan was intrigued.
“Suppose I went and offered her my services?” he said to himself. “She looks young, and maybe she’s pretty. I should do it! . . . On the other hand, a woman on the streets at this hour can only be going to meet her lover. Plague take it! If I interfere with a rendezvous, it’ll be a bad start to a relationship.”
The young woman came back again, this time counting houses and windows. This didn’t take long: there were only three buildings on the block, with only two windows at street level. One window was in a pavilion next door to Aramis’s house and the other was Aramis’s own.
“Pardieu!” said d’Artagnan to himself, suddenly recalling the tale of the theologian’s niece. “Wouldn’t it be funny if this late-flying dove was searching for my friend’s house? Wait—upon my soul, that’s what it looks like! Ah, my dear Aramis, I’ve got you this time.”
And d’Artagnan, making himself as small as he could, melted into the shadows, watching from a stone bench at the back of a niche in the wall. The young woman advanced a few more paces, making no sound but for those light footsteps that had betrayed her sex, and a little cough, which suggested a sweet voice. D’Artagnan thought this cough sounded like a signal.
Whether in response to the cough or to some other signal, the young woman appeared to recognize that she’d reached her destination. She resolutely approached Aramis’s shutter and made three evenly spaced taps on it.
“All’s well chez Aramis,” murmured d’Artagnan. “Ah, Monsieur Hypocrite, now I see what theology you study!”
The third tap was scarcely struck when the inner casement opened and light glimmered through the panes behind the shutter.
“Oh ho!” said the listener. “She was awaited, not at the door, but at the window. Now the sash will open and the lady will enter by escalade. Excellent!”
But to d’Artagnan’s surprise, the window stayed closed. The light that had flared for an instant disappeared, and all returned to darkness. D’Artagnan told himself this couldn’t last long, and continued his surveillance, eyes and ears open wide. He was right: after some seconds, two sharp taps resounded from the interior. The young woman in the street answered with a single tap, and the shutter was half opened.
One can guess how avidly d’Artagnan looked and listened. The light within had been carried into another room, but
the eyes of the young man were used to the night. The eyes of Gascons, it’s said, are like cats’, and can see in the dark.
As d’Artagnan watched, the young woman drew a white object from her pocket and unfolded it until it took the shape of a handkerchief. She then displayed a corner of this object to the person inside the window. This brought to mind for d’Artagnan the handkerchief he’d found at the feet of Madame Bonacieux, which in turn recalled the one he’d found at the feet of Aramis. “What the devil,” he said to himself, “could this handkerchief signify?”
From where he was, d’Artagnan couldn’t see the face of the person inside the window, but the young man had no doubt but that it was his friend Aramis who was conversing with the lady on the outside. Curiosity prevailing over prudence, he took advantage of their preoccupation with the handkerchief to leave his hiding place. Quick as lightning, but softly, he slid along to an angle of the wall where he could see into the interior of Aramis’s apartment.
D’Artagnan almost let out a cry of surprise: it wasn’t Aramis inside the window, it was a woman. He could make out the form of her garments, but couldn’t distinguish her features. As he watched, the woman in the house drew a second handkerchief from her own pocket and exchanged it for the one that had been shown to her. Some final whispered words passed between the two women, and then the shutter was closed. The woman outside the window turned and walked away, passing within four paces of d’Artagnan while lowering the hood of her cloak; but the precaution was too late, for d’Artagnan had already recognized Madame Bonacieux.
Madame Bonacieux! He’d suspected it was her since she’d taken the handkerchief from her pocket, but how likely was it that Madame Bonacieux, who was supposedly being conducted to the Louvre by Monsieur de La Porte, should be running through the streets of Paris alone at half past eleven at night, risking a second abduction?
She must have a very urgent reason to do such a thing. And what reason is most urgent to a woman of twenty-five? Love.
But was it on her own account, or for some other person that she endangered herself so? That was what d’Artagnan asked himself, the demon of jealousy gnawing at his heart as if he were already the young woman’s acknowledged lover.
There was one very simple means to find out where Madame Bonacieux was going, and that was to follow her. This course was so natural that d’Artagnan instinctively assumed it. But, at the sound of footsteps behind her, and the sight of a shadow detaching itself from the wall like a statue from its niche, Madame Bonacieux uttered a little cry and fled.
D’Artagnan ran after her. It wasn’t hard for him to catch a small woman embarrassed by a large cloak, and he caught up to her before she’d gone a third of the length of the block. The unfortunate woman was exhausted, not by fatigue, but by terror; when d’Artagnan placed his hand on her shoulder, she fell to the ground and cried out in a choked voice, “Kill me if you want, but I’ll tell you nothing!”
D’Artagnan passed his arms around her waist and lifted the half-fainting woman, trying to reassure her with protestations of devotion. The words were nothing to Madame Bonacieux, for such things are often said with the worst intentions in the world; but the voice was everything. The young woman thought she recognized that voice, and opened her eyes to look at the man who’d so terrorized her. Seeing it was d’Artagnan, she gave a cry of joy. “Oh! It’s you, it’s you! Thanks be to God!”
“Yes, it’s me, whom God has sent to watch over you,” said d’Artagnan.
“Was it with that intention that you followed me?” she asked, smiling coquettishly, her spirits instantly restored. All fear had disappeared the moment she’d recognized a friend in one she’d taken for an enemy.
“No,” said d’Artagnan, “no, I confess it was chance that put me in your path; I saw a woman knocking at the window of one of my friends . . .”
“Of one of your friends?” interrupted Madame Bonacieux.
“But yes. Aramis is one of my best friends.”
“Aramis? Who’s that?”
“Come, now! Are you going to tell me that you don’t know Aramis?”
“This is the first time I’ve heard his name.”
“Is it the first time, then, that you’ve been to that house?”
“Of course.”
“And you didn’t know that a young man lives there?”
“No.”
“A musketeer?”
“Not at all.”
“Then he wasn’t the one you came looking for?”
“Not the least in the world. Besides, as I’m sure you could see, the person I spoke with was a woman.”
“That’s true; but maybe she’s one of Aramis’s friends.”
“I know nothing of that.”
“Since she’s staying in his house.”
“That has nothing to do with me.”
“Well, then, who is she?”
“Oh! That’s not my secret.”
“My dear Madame Bonacieux, you are charming, but at the same time you’re the most mysterious of women.”
“Do I lose by that?”
“On the contrary, you’re adorable.”
“Then give me your arm.”
“Most willingly. And now?”
“Now, escort me.”
“To where?”
“Where I’m going.”
“But where are you going?”
“You’ll see when you leave me at the door.”
“Should I wait for you?”
“There would be no point to that.”
“You’ll return, then, alone?”
“Perhaps, and perhaps not.”
“But the person who accompanies you then, will it be a man or a woman?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“But I will know!”
“How’s that?”
“I’ll wait to see you leave.”
“In that case, goodbye!”
“Why?”
“I have no need for you.”
“But you asked for . . .”
“The aid of a gentleman, not the surveillance of a spy.”
“Spy! That’s a hard word!”
“And what do you call those who follow people in spite of them?”
“The indiscreet.”
“The word is too mild.”
D’Artagnan sighed. “Very well, Madame. I can see I must do just what you wish.”
“I’d think better of you if you’d done so at once.”
“Is there no merit in repentance?”
“And do you really repent?”
“I have no real idea what we’re talking about! All I know is, I promise to do everything you want if you let me escort you to where you’re going.”
“And you’ll leave me afterward?”
“Yes.”
“Without spying on my exit?”
“No.”
“Word of honor?”
“Faith of a gentleman!”
“Take my arm, then, and let’s go.”
D’Artagnan offered his arm to Madame Bonacieux, and she took it, half laughing, half trembling. Together they walked to the Porte Saint-Michel and passed through, to the top of the Rue de La Harpe. Beyond the Cluny bath house the young woman appeared to hesitate, as she had in the Rue de Vaugirard. But from certain signs she seemed to recognize one particular door. Approaching it, she said, “This is where I have business. A thousand thanks for the honor of your company, which has protected me from the dangers I would have been exposed to if alone. However, I’ve arrived at my destination, and the moment has come for you to keep your word.”
“You’ll have nothing to fear when returning?”
“I’ll have nothing to fear but robbers.”
“Are robbers nothing?”
“What could they take from me? I don’t have a denier on me.”
“You forget that beautiful handkerchief, embroidered with a coat of arms.”
“What?”
“The one I found at your feet, and retu
rned to your pocket.”
“Hush, you fool!” cried the young woman. “Quiet, or I’m lost!”
“So, there is still danger for you, since a single word terrifies you, and you admit that if it were overheard, you’d be lost. Ah, Madame, take what I offer!” cried d’Artagnan, seizing her hand and looking ardently at her. “Confide in me! Haven’t you seen in my eyes the devotion of my heart?”
“I have,” replied Madame Bonacieux. “Ask me for my secrets, and I’ll tell you; but don’t ask me for the secrets of others.”
“All right,” said d’Artagnan. “I’ll discover them myself. Since these secrets have an influence over your life, these secrets must be mine.”
“Take care, Monsieur! I beg you, in the name of whatever feelings I inspire in you, in the name of the services you’ve rendered me, and which I shall never forget—I beg you, I say, not to get mixed up in my affairs.” Madame Bonacieux said this with a gravity that chilled d’Artagnan despite himself. “Believe what I tell you. Don’t concern yourself any further about me. If you’re wise, I’ll no longer exist for you, just as if you’d never seen me.”
“Must Aramis forget you as well, Madame?” said d’Artagnan, piqued.
“Again that name! Monsieur, I’ve told you two or three times already that I don’t know him.”
“You don’t know the man whose shutter you knocked on? Come, Madame! How gullible do you think I am?”
“Admit that you invented that story, and created this Aramis person just to make me talk!”
“I invent nothing, Madame, I create nothing. I speak the exact truth.”
“You hold to your story that one of your friends lives in that house?”
“I say and repeat once again, that house is inhabited by my friend, whose name is Aramis.”
“All this will have to be cleared up later,” murmured the young woman. “Now, Monsieur, hush! That’s quite enough.”
“If you could see everything in my heart,” said d’Artagnan, “you would read there so much curiosity that you’d pity me, and so much love that you would instantly satisfy my curiosity. They have nothing to fear from those who love them.”