He had arrived at his rendezvous. The letter hadn’t mentioned how he was to signal his presence, so he waited.
Not a sound could be heard; he could have been a hundred leagues from the capital. D’Artagnan glanced around, then leaned himself against the hedge. Beyond the hedge, the garden, and the cottage, a thick, dark mist cloaked the sprawling city of Paris, a black void from which only an occasional light glittered, like stars fallen from heaven to glimmer in hell.
But for d’Artagnan, the world was garbed in happiness, the future smiled upon him, and every shadow would fade. The hour of his rendezvous had arrived. The great bell in the belfry of Saint-Cloud tolled slowly ten times. There was something doleful in its sonorous bronze voice, mournful to hear in the middle of the night—but the young man’s heart vibrated in harmony with every stroke that sounded the hour he’d awaited so long.
His eyes were fixed on the little pavilion on the corner. All its windows were closed and shuttered, except one up on the first floor. From this window shone a soft light that silvered the shivering leaves of the lime trees that grew just outside the park. Evidently behind this little window, with its pleasant glow, waited pretty Madame Bonacieux.
Comforted by this sweet idea, d’Artagnan waited with patient docility for half an hour, eyes glued to that charming little room. He could see part of a ceiling with gilded moldings, which hinted at the elegance of the rest of the apartment.
The belfry of Saint-Cloud struck ten-thirty. This time, without quite knowing why, d’Artagnan felt a cold shiver run through his veins. But maybe the chill was beginning to creep into him, and he’d mistaken a mere physical sensation for a shudder of apprehension.
Suddenly he was convinced that he’d gotten the rendezvous wrong, that it was actually for eleven o’clock. He crossed the alley and approached the window, drew the letter from his pocket, and read it again in the dim light from above. He hadn’t been wrong: the rendezvous was for ten o’clock.
He went back and resumed his post, though the silence and the solitude were beginning to make him uneasy.
Eleven o’clock sounded.
Now d’Artagnan really began to fear that something had happened to Madame Bonacieux. He clapped his hands three times, the usual lovers’ signal, but there was no reply—not even an echo. He then thought, with a certain irritation, that maybe the young woman had fallen asleep while waiting for him. He crossed over to the wall and tried to climb it, but the mortar between the bricks had been pointed recently and he couldn’t get a good hold. As he slipped back to the ground he thought of the trees, their leaves still limned by the light. One of them hung over the road, and he thought that from within its branches he might be able to see into the pavilion.
Climbing the tree was easy. Besides, d’Artagnan was barely twenty and still remembered his schoolboy skills. In an instant he was among the branches, looking through the windows deep into the interior of the pavilion.
The calm, unwavering glow of the lamp with its soft light illuminated a scene of unspeakable chaos, and the strange contrast sent a chill through d’Artagnan from his soles to his scalp. One of the windowpanes was cracked; the door to the room had been broken in and hung in two pieces on its hinges; a table, which had been covered with an elegant supper, lay overturned on the floor, amid shattered glass and smashed fruit. Everything in the chamber told the story of a violent and desperate struggle. D’Artagnan even thought he could see among the debris pieces of clothing and bloodstains spattered on the carpets and curtains.
The young cadet dropped back down to the street, heart pounding frantically, to see if he could find other traces of violence in the soft light that still shined into the calm night. He then saw that the ground was trampled and pockmarked here and there with a confusion of footprints of men and horses. He hadn’t noticed it before because he hadn’t thought to look. Furthermore, the wheel-marks of a carriage had made a deep imprint in the soft earth near the wall. The carriage appeared to have come from Paris, turned around in front of the pavilion, and returned the way it came.
At length d’Artagnan’s search turned up a torn woman’s glove near the wall. Still light and fresh in those places where it hadn’t touched the muddy ground, it was the kind of perfumed glove that lovers like to pluck from a pretty hand.
As d’Artagnan searched, a cold sweat dripped from his forehead, his breathing was ragged, and his heart clenched in horrible anguish. For reassurance, he told himself that the chaos in the pavilion might have nothing to do with Madame Bonacieux; that the young woman’s rendezvous with him was for in front of the pavilion, not in the pavilion; that she might have been detained in Paris by her duties, or by the jealousy of her husband.
But all these rationalizations were overwhelmed by an agonized conviction, that feeling we get that tells us with certainty that we’re victims of a horrible fate.
Then d’Artagnan nearly went mad. He ran wildly back along the high road, returning along his route from Paris. At the ferry across the river, he found the boatman and plied him with desperate questions.
The boatman said that at about seven in the evening he’d carried across a woman enveloped in a black cloak, who seemed anxious not to be recognized. However, just because of that, the boatman had paid special attention to her and had noticed that she was young and pretty.
There was then, as now, a regular series of young and pretty women who come to Saint-Cloud with an interest in not being seen, but d’Artagnan didn’t doubt for an instant that this woman was Madame Bonacieux. He took advantage of the lamp in the boatman’s cabin to read her letter one more time and reassured himself that he’d made no mistake. The rendezvous had been at Saint-Cloud and not elsewhere, in front of the pavilion of Monsieur d’Estrées and not in some other street. Everything seemed to confirm d’Artagnan’s premonition of evil. Something awful had happened.
He ran back to the château. Something might have occurred at the pavilion in his absence, and some new clues might await him.
The alley was still deserted, and the same soft light shone from the window.
D’Artagnan then thought of that silent, dark cottage behind the hedge. Someone there might have seen something and might be willing to talk about it.
The gate of the little enclosure was shut, but d’Artagnan leaped over the hedge and approached the cottage, despite the barking of a chained-up dog.
There was no response to his first few knocks. As with the pavilion, a deathlike silence reigned over the cottage. But the cottage felt like his last chance, so he kept at it.
After a little while he thought he heard a noise from inside: a timid noise, a noise that seemed afraid of being heard. D’Artagnan stopped knocking and began to beg, to implore in a voice so filled with worry and terror, promises and cajolery, that even the most frightened person would have been reassured by it. At length an old, worm-eaten shutter was opened, or rather shoved ajar, and then suddenly slammed shut again when the light from a miserable lamp had shone on d’Artagnan’s baldric, sword, and pistols. But in that moment d’Artagnan had glimpsed the pale head of an old man.
“In the name of heaven!” he cried. “Listen to me! I’ve been waiting on someone who hasn’t come, and I’m worried to death. Has there been any trouble nearby? Tell me!”
The window slowly opened and the aged face appeared again, but even more pale than before.
D’Artagnan told his story, simply, with no names. He told how he’d had a rendezvous with a young woman before the pavilion, and how, when she didn’t appear, he’d climbed the lime tree, where by the light of the lamp he’d seen the terrible state of the room within.
The old man listened attentively, nodding as if to say, “Just so.” When d’Artagnan was finished, he shook his head sadly.
“Tell me what you mean!” cried d’Artagnan. “In the name of heaven! Speak! Explain yourself!”
“Oh, Monsieur!” said the old man. “Please ask me nothing. If I tell you what I’ve seen, it’s certain that no
good will come to me.”
“You have seen something, then? In that case, in the name of heaven—and of this coin”—d’Artagnan threw the man a pistole—“tell me what you’ve seen. I give you the word of a gentleman that I’ll keep what you say locked in my heart.”
The old man read so much truth and sorrow in d’Artagnan’s face that he beckoned him closer. He said, in a low voice, “At nearly nine o’clock, I heard a noise in the street. I wondered what it could be, but when I approached my gate I saw that someone was trying to get in. I’m poor and not afraid of being robbed, so I went to open it and saw three men in the alley. In the shadow of the trees there was a two-horse carriage and several saddled horses that apparently belonged to the three men, who were dressed as cavaliers.
“‘My good Messieurs,’ I called, ‘what can I do for you?’
“‘Do you have a ladder?’ said one, who appeared to be the leader.
“‘Yes, Monsieur, the one I use to pick my fruit.’
“‘Give it to us, and go back into your house. Here’s a crown for your trouble. Only remember that if you speak a word about what you see and hear—for you will spy and eavesdrop, I’m sure, no matter how we threaten you—if you speak a word, I say, you’re lost.’
“At these words, he threw me a crown, which I picked up, and he took my ladder. He was right: after shutting my gate behind them, I pretended to return to my house, but I immediately went out the back door and sneaked through the shadows into those elderberry bushes, from which I could see everything.
“The three men quietly drew up the carriage, then brought a little man out of it, fat, short, gray, and dressed in shabby dark clothes. He carefully climbed the ladder, peeked into the lit chamber, came quietly back down, and whispered, ‘It’s her!’
“Immediately the one he’d spoken to approached the door of the pavilion, opened it with a key, entered, and closed the door behind him. Meanwhile the other two men climbed the ladder. The little old man waited at the door of the carriage, the driver held the carriage horses, and a lackey held the saddled horses.
“All at once shouts came from the pavilion, and a woman ran to the window and opened it, as if to jump out. But as soon as she saw the two men she shrieked and backed away. The two men sprang after her into the chamber.
“Then I could see no more, but I heard the sound of furniture breaking. The woman shouted and called for help, but then her cries were muffled. The two men appeared at the window, carrying the woman in their arms. They climbed down the ladder and took her into the carriage, followed by the little old man. The leader, who was still in the pavilion, closed the window and came out the door a moment later. He made sure the woman was in the carriage, then sprang into the saddle, followed by his two companions. The lackey climbed up next to the driver and the carriage set off at a gallop, escorted by the three cavaliers. That was the end of it, and from that moment I haven’t heard or seen anything.”
D’Artagnan was crushed by this terrible news into a mute paralysis, while the demons of anger and jealousy howled in his heart.
“Please, my gentleman,” said the old man, affected more by this mute dejection than he would have been by tears and laments, “don’t despair. They didn’t kill her, and that’s what really matters.”
D’Artagnan said, “Do you know anything of the man who led this hellish crew?”
“Nothing at all.”
“But since you spoke to him, you must have seen him.”
“Oh, you want a description of him?”
“Yes.”
“A tall dark fellow, with black mustachios, dark eyes, and the air of a gentleman.”
“That’s him!” d’Artagnan cried. “Him again! Always him! He’s my nemesis, it seems. And the other?”
“Which?”
“The short one.”
“Oh! He was no nobleman, I’ll answer for it. Besides, he didn’t carry a sword, and the others treated him with no respect.”
“Some lackey,” murmured d’Artagnan. “Ah! Poor woman! Poor woman! What have they done with you?”
“You promised to keep my secret,” said the old man.
“And I repeat my promise. Never fear, I’m a gentleman. A gentleman has only his word, and I’ve given you mine.”
With a weight on his soul, d’Artagnan returned along the road to the ferry. Sometimes he tried to believe that it hadn’t really been Madame Bonacieux, that he’d find her tomorrow returned to the Louvre; sometimes he feared that she’d had an affair with some other man, who in a jealous rage had surprised her and carried her off. He wavered between grief and despair. “If only I had my friends!” he groaned. “Then I might at least have some hope of rescuing her. But who knows what’s become of them?”
It was nearly midnight. His next concern was to find Planchet. D’Artagnan checked all the cabarets along the high road that still showed a little light, but Planchet was in none of them.
As he entered the sixth cabaret, it occurred to him that this midnight search was rather hazardous. D’Artagnan had told his lackey to meet him at six in the morning, and wherever he’d gone, he was within his rights to be gone until then. Besides, it occurred to d’Artagnan that if he remained in the neighborhood of the crime something might yet occur that would shed some light on the mysterious affair. So d’Artagnan stopped in the sixth cabaret, asked for a bottle of their best wine, then installed himself in the darkest corner of the room and settled in to wait for daylight.
Once again his hopes came to naught, for though he listened to the cabaret’s clientele with both ears, he heard nothing but crude insults and coarse jokes from the laborers, servants, and drovers who composed the honorable society of which he was temporarily a part. There was nothing at all about his poor abducted lady. Lacking options, he availed himself of his bottle until it was empty, and then to avoid suspicion he curled up to try to sleep as best he could. Of course, he was only twenty years old, an age when sleep has inalienable rights that must be obeyed, even over hearts in despair.
Around six in the morning d’Artagnan awoke with that sticky feeling that generally follows a bad night. He straightened his clothes and checked to make sure no one had taken advantage of his sleep to rob him. His diamond was on his finger, his purse in his pocket and his pistols in his belt, so he arose, paid for his bottle, and left to see if he’d have any better luck finding his lackey in the morning than he’d had the night before.
The first thing he saw in the damp, gray mist was honest Planchet, holding two horses outside the door of a cabaret so small, that the previous night d’Artagnan had passed it without even suspecting it was there.
XXV
The Mistress of Porthos
Instead of returning directly home d’Artagnan stopped at Monsieur de Tréville’s gate, where he ran up the stairs. This time, he’d decided to tell the whole story of what had happened. No doubt Tréville could give him some good advice on the matter; and, as the captain saw the queen almost daily, he might be able to learn something from Her Majesty about poor Madame Bonacieux, now paying so dearly for her devotion to her mistress.
Monsieur de Tréville listened to the young man’s account with a seriousness that indicated he saw something more in it than a mere love affair. When d’Artagnan had finished, he said, “Hum! This stinks of His Eminence a league off.”
“But what should I do?” said d’Artagnan.
“There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, you can do right now, except get out of Paris as soon as possible—as I told you yesterday. I’ll see the queen and give her the details of this poor woman’s disappearance, of which she’s doubtless ignorant. The report might help her decide what to do, and on your return, maybe I’ll have some good news for you. Leave it to me.”
D’Artagnan knew that, although Tréville was a Gascon, he was not in the habit of making promises lightly—and if he did promise, he more than kept his word. D’Artagnan bowed to him, grateful for favors both past and future. The worthy captain, who had a
keen interest in this young man, so brave and so resolute, shook his hand affectionately and wished him a bon voyage.
Determined to put Tréville’s advice into practice right away, d’Artagnan made his way to the Rue des Fossoyeurs, intent on immediately packing his bags. As he came up the block, he recognized Monsieur Bonacieux, standing in front of his door in his morning clothes. Everything the prudent Planchet had said the night before about the sinister character of his landlord returned to d’Artagnan, and he looked at Bonacieux with new eyes. Besides having a sickly, jaundiced look that indicated an excess of bile in his blood, which might not mean anything, d’Artagnan thought he detected something sly and perfidious lurking in the wrinkles around the man’s eyes. A rogue doesn’t laugh the same way as an honest man, and a hypocrite doesn’t shed the same tears as a man of good faith. All falsehood is a mask—and however good the mask, with a little attention one can always tell the mask from the face.
So it seemed to d’Artagnan that Bonacieux wore a mask—a mask that, once recognized, was thoroughly unpleasant to see. Overcome by a sudden feeling of repugnance, he was about to pass the man without speaking to him when Bonacieux waylaid him as he’d done the day before.
“Well, young man,” he said, “what late hours we seem to be keeping! Seven in the morning, peste! It seems to me you’re doing things exactly backward, coming home just when others are going out.”
“Certainly no one can say that of you, Master Bonacieux,” said the young man. “You’re a model of propriety. Though it goes without saying that when a man has a young and pretty wife, he doesn’t need to go out looking for happiness. His happiness finds him—isn’t that right, Monsieur Bonacieux?”
Bonacieux went pale as death, but managed to grimace out a smile. “Ho ho!” he said. “You are a funny one. And where the devil did you go last night, my young master? You appear to have taken none too clean a route.”
D’Artagnan glanced down at his muddy boots and in the same glance noticed the mercer’s shoes and stockings. It looked like they both came from the same gutter; both their feet were stained with the same kind of mud.