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

  D’Artagnan suddenly remembered the portly little old man in dark clothes, the sort of lackey who’d been treated with such disdain by the gentleman kidnappers. It had been Bonacieux himself! The husband had assisted at the abduction of his wife.

  D’Artagnan felt a sudden urge to take the mercer by the throat and strangle him on the spot—but he was a prudent youth, as has been said, and restrained himself. However, the change of expression on his face terrified Bonacieux, who tried to back away, but was stopped by the closed door behind him.

  “Ha ha! I think you are the funny one, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan. “My boots may need a good sponging, but your stockings and shoes need brushing just as badly. Were you out on the town yourself, Master Bonacieux? You devil, you! That’s inexcusable in a man your age, especially if he has a wife as pretty as yours!”

  “Lord, no!” said Bonacieux. “Yesterday I went to Saint-Mandé to make inquiries about a new servant, since I can’t do without one. The roads were so bad I picked up all this mud and I haven’t had time yet to clean it off.”

  D’Artagnan was sure Bonacieux had named Saint-Mandé because it was in the exact opposite direction from Paris as Saint-Cloud. This was just one more proof that confirmed his suspicions.

  The probable truth of this gave d’Artagnan his first consolation in the whole affair. If Bonacieux knew where his wife was, d’Artagnan might, by extreme methods, pry open the mercer’s teeth and force out his secret. But he needed to make sure the probability was a certainty.

  “Pardon my asking, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux,” said d’Artagnan, “but nothing makes one so thirsty as lack of sleep. Allow me to step into your house for a glass of water. You know no neighbor would ever refuse such a request.” And without waiting for permission from his host, d’Artagnan quickly opened the front door and stepped past him into the house, where he took a quick glance at the bed. It had not been slept in; Bonacieux hadn’t been to bed at all. He must have returned in the last hour or two after having accompanied his captive wife to wherever they’d taken her, or at least to the first relay.

  “Merci, Master Bonacieux,” said d’Artagnan, draining his glass. “That’s all I wanted from you. Now I’ll return to my room and have Planchet brush my boots. When he’s done, if you like, I’ll send him down to brush your shoes.” He then left the mercer, who seemed surprised at his strange behavior. D’Artagnan wondered if he’d tripped himself up.

  At the top of the stairs d’Artagnan found Planchet quivering in fright. “Ah, Monsieur!” cried Planchet, as soon as he saw his master. “It never stops! I thought you would never come back.”

  “What now?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “Never, not in a hundred, not in a thousand tries, would you guess who came to visit you in your absence.”

  “When was this?”

  “About half an hour ago, while you were at Monsieur de Tréville’s.”

  “Well, who was it? Come on, tell me.”

  “Monsieur de Cavois.”

  “Monsieur de Cavois?”

  “In person.”

  “The Captain of the Cardinal’s Guards?”

  “Himself.”

  “Did he come to arrest me?”

  “I don’t doubt it, Monsieur, despite all his soft soap.”

  “Soft soap? Did he seem overly polite?”

  “He was all honey, Monsieur.”

  “Really?”

  “He came, he said, in the name of His Eminence, who wished you well, and said he wanted you to follow him to the cardinal’s hôtel.”

  “What did you say to that?”

  “That it was impossible, since you weren’t at home, as he could see for himself.”

  “And he said . . . ?”

  “That you mustn’t fail to call upon him sometime today. Then he added, in a low voice, ‘Tell your master that His Eminence holds him in high regard and that his fortune may depend on this interview.’” D’Artagnan smiled.

  “That’s a rather clumsy snare. I expected better from the cardinal.”

  “I saw the snare, too, so I told him that when you returned, you’d be desolate that you’d missed him. ‘Where’s he gone?’ Monsieur de Cavois asked, and I told him, ‘To Troyes in Champagne.’ ‘When did he leave?’ he asked, and I told him, ‘Last night.’”

  “Planchet, my friend,” said d’Artagnan, “you’re a prince.”

  “You understand, Monsieur, I thought that if you did want to see Monsieur de Cavois, you could always contradict me and say that you hadn’t left yet. That would make a liar of me, but since I’m not a gentleman, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Planchet, you may keep your reputation as a man of truth. We leave in a quarter of an hour.”

  “That’s just the advice I was going to give to Monsieur. And where are we going, if I’m not being too curious?”

  “In the opposite direction from the way you said I’d gone, by God! Besides, aren’t you as eager for news of Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin as I am to know what’s become of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis?”

  “Every bit, Monsieur,” said Planchet. “I’m ready when you’re ready. At the moment, I think the air of the provinces will be healthier for us than the air of Paris. So . . .”

  “So pack our bags, Planchet, and let’s go. As for me, I’m going out right now, nonchalant as can be, hands in my pockets, so no one will suspect anything. When we’re packed, meet me at the Hôtel des Gardes. By the way, Planchet, I think you were right about our landlord. He’s a genuine rat.”

  “Monsieur, you can always believe me when I tell you something like that. I’m a physiognomist,70 I am!”

  As per the plan, d’Artagnan went down first. Then, to make sure he’d covered all eventualities, he called for a final time at the lodgings of his three friends. There was no news of them, except for a letter that had arrived for Aramis, perfumed and addressed in an elegant small hand. D’Artagnan took charge of it. Ten minutes later, Planchet rejoined him in the stables of the Hôtel des Gardes. To save time, d’Artagnan had already saddled his own horse. Planchet gave him his travel bag, and d’Artagnan said, “All right, now saddle the other three horses and we’ll go.”

  “Does Monsieur think we’ll travel twice as fast if we each have two horses?” Planchet asked sardonically.

  “No, Monsieur Smart-Arse,” replied d’Artagnan, “but with four horses we can bring back our three friends, assuming we find them alive.”

  “Small chance of that,” said Planchet, “but we must never despair of the mercy of God.”

  “Amen,” said d’Artagnan, mounting his horse.

  They separated as they left the Hôtel des Gardes, going opposite ways down the street, one to leave Paris by the Porte Saint-Martin and the other by the Porte Montmartre, to rejoin beyond Saint-Denis. This strategic maneuver was executed like clockwork, and as a result d’Artagnan and Planchet entered Pierrefitte together.

  Planchet, it must be said, was much more courageous by day than by night. However, his natural prudence never left him at any time. He hadn’t forgotten any of the incidents of their first journey, and he regarded everyone they met on the road as a potential enemy. As a result, his hat was always in his hand—which earned him some severe rebukes from d’Artagnan, who feared such excessive politeness would make people think Planchet was lackey to a person of no consequence.

  However, because passersby were mollified by Planchet’s manners—or because, this time, no enemies were posted on the young man’s road—the two travelers arrived at Chantilly without incident. They alighted at the Inn of Grand Saint-Martin, where they’d stopped on their first journey.

  The host, seeing a young gentleman followed by a lackey leading two fine horses, approached respectfully from the front door. Having traveled eleven leagues, d’Artagnan thought it was a good time to stop, whether or not Porthos could be found there. He thought it might not be wise to inquire immediately about the musketeer, so, without asking any questions, he descended from his horse, comme
nded it to the care of his lackey, and went into the small back room provided for those who wished to dine alone. He asked the host to bring him a bottle of his best wine and as good a breakfast as he could manage, orders that confirmed the high opinion his host had formed of him at first glance. D’Artagnan, therefore, was served with miraculous speed.

  Everyone knew the regiment of the Gardes Françaises drew its recruits from among the leading gentlemen of the realm, so d’Artagnan, followed by a lackey and with four magnificent horses, couldn’t fail to make an impression, despite the simplicity of his uniform. The host decided to wait on him personally. Seeing this, d’Artagnan told him to bring two glasses and opened up a conversation with him.

  “Ma foi, my dear host—I asked for a bottle of your best,” said d’Artagnan, filling the glasses, “and if you’ve brought me anything less, your punishment will suit the crime, for since I hate to drink alone, you’ll have to join me. Take up your glass, and let’s drink! . . . But we must drink to something no one can argue with. Let’s drink to the prosperity of your establishment!”

  “Your Lordship honors me,” said the host, “and my sincere thanks for the compliment.”

  “Make no mistake,” said d’Artagnan, “there may be more selfishness in my toast than you suppose. You can get good service only in a prosperous establishment; in a place that isn’t doing well, the service is poor, and the traveler suffers from the troubles of the host. Now, I travel quite a bit, especially on this road, so I like to see all the inns along this route prospering.”

  “Yes, I thought I’d had the honor of seeing Monsieur once before,” said the host.

  “Once? Bah! I’ve passed through Chantilly maybe ten times, and I’ve stopped at your inn on at least three or four occasions. Why, I was here only ten or twelve days ago, accompanied by some friends—musketeers. By the way, one of them got into a dispute with a stranger, a man who picked a fight with him for no apparent reason.”

  “Yes, indeed!” said the host. “I recall it perfectly! Your Lordship means Monsieur Porthos, don’t you? Tsk, tsk.”

  “Yes, that was my companion’s name. Good lord! Don’t tell me something’s happened to him?”

  “But Your Lordship must have noticed that he didn’t continue his journey.”

  “Of course. He promised to rejoin us, but he never appeared.”

  “He’s done us the honor of remaining here in our inn. But I must admit, we’re getting a little anxious about him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because of certain expenses he’s incurred.”

  “But whatever the total, I’m sure he’ll pay it.”

  “Ah, Monsieur, that’s music to my ears! He’s run up quite a bill, and just this morning the doctor declared that if Monsieur Porthos didn’t pay him he’d hold me responsible, as I was the one who’d sent for him.”

  “Is Porthos wounded, then?”

  “I can’t tell you, Monsieur.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t tell me? You ought to know better than anyone.”

  “Yes, Monsieur, but in our situation we don’t always say everything we know, especially when we’ve been warned that if we use our tongues, we’ll lose our ears.”

  “Well, can I see Porthos?”

  “Certainly, Monsieur. Take the stairs up to the first floor and knock at Number 1. Only, warn him that it’s you.”

  “What? Why should I warn him that it’s me?”

  “I wouldn’t want Monsieur to have an accident.”

  “What kind of accident are you afraid of?”

  “Monsieur Porthos might take you for one of the staff and run you through, or maybe blow your brains out.”

  “What have you done to him?”

  “We . . . asked him for payment.”

  “The devil you say! Now I understand. It’s a request that Porthos responds poorly to when he’s out of funds. But I know he ought to be flush.”

  “We thought so too, Monsieur. As this house is quite meticulous about weekly accounts, after eight days we presented our bill. However, apparently we chose a bad time to do it, as at the first word on the subject, he told us to go to the devil. Now, it’s true, he had been gambling the night before . . .”

  “Oh? With whom?”

  “My God, who can say? With some gentleman who was passing through, whom Monsieur Porthos invited to play lansquenet71 with him.”

  “That’s it, then! The poor sap must have lost everything.”

  “Right down to his horse, Monsieur, for when the stranger was leaving, we noticed that his lackey was saddling Monsieur Porthos’s mount. When we pointed this out to the stranger, he told us to mind our own business, as the horse was now his. We then notified Monsieur Porthos of what was going on. But he told us we must be lowborn louts to doubt the word of a gentleman, and if the man said the horse was his, it must be true.”

  “That sounds like Porthos, all right,” murmured d’Artagnan.

  “Then,” continued the host, “I told him that since we seemed to have a disagreement about payment, I hoped he would have the courtesy to take his business over to the Golden Eagle, but Monsieur Porthos said that, since my inn was the best in town, he preferred to remain here.

  “This reply was so flattering I couldn’t really insist that he leave. I limited myself to begging him to give up his chamber, which is the best in the inn, and be content with a pretty little room on the third floor. But Monsieur Porthos said he was expecting at any moment to receive a visit from his mistress, who was one of the greatest ladies of the Court, and he gave me to understand that the chamber he did me the honor to occupy was barely adequate to host such a visitor.

  “Though what he said might be true, I still felt I had to insist. But he wouldn’t even discuss it with me—he just took out a pistol, laid it on the table, and declared that at the first word he heard about removing himself, he would blow out the brains of whoever would be so foolish as to meddle in something that concerned only himself. Since then, Monsieur, no one goes into his chamber except his servant.”

  “Mousqueton is here, then?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. Five days after your departure he returned, in rather bad shape. It appears he too had some bad luck on his journey. Unfortunately, he’s more mobile than his master, and he’s turned everything around here upside down. He thinks we might refuse if he asked for anything, so he just takes whatever he needs without asking.”

  “I’ve always said Mousqueton was a paragon of intelligence and devotion,” said d’Artagnan.

  “That may be, Monsieur, but if I encounter such intelligence and devotion four times in a year, I’ll be a ruined man.”

  “Not at all. Porthos will pay you.”

  “Hum!” said the host, in a doubtful tone.

  “No favorite of a great lady will be allowed to be embarrassed by the miserable amount he owes you.”

  “Yes, well, if I dared to say what I believe about that matter . . .” “Just what do you believe?”

  “Or rather, what I know.”

  “What do you know, then?”

  “In fact, what I’m sure of.”

  “All right, then: what are you sure of?”

  “I’m sure I know who this ‘great lady’ is.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, me.”

  “And how is it that you know her?”

  “Oh, Monsieur—if I thought I could trust your discretion . . .”

  “Tell me. On the word of a gentleman, you won’t be sorry.”

  “Well, as Monsieur must know, worry sometimes makes us do things we otherwise might not.”

  “What has worry made you do?”

  “Nothing outside my rights as a creditor!”

  “So?”

  “Monsieur Porthos gave us a letter for this duchess and told us to put it in the post. This was before his servant had arrived, and since Monsieur was unable to leave his room, we were charged with running his errands.”

  “So, then?”

 
“Instead of putting the letter in the post, which is rather unreliable, I took advantage of a trip one of my lads was making to Paris and charged him with delivering this letter to the duchess personally. Didn’t this fulfill the intentions of Monsieur Porthos, who wanted us to take care of the letter?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Well, Monsieur, do you know who this great lady is?”

  “No; I’ve heard Porthos talk about her, that’s all.”

  “You don’t know the identity of this pretended duchess?”

  “I just told you, I don’t know her.”

  “She’s the aging wife of a prosecutor of the Châtelet,72 Monsieur, whose name is Madame Coquenard. She’s at least fifty, but still acts jealous.” The host chuckled. “I thought it was strange that a high-ranking noblewoman should keep a house in the Rue aux Ours.”

  “So how did you come to know so much?”

  “Because she threw a fit when she received the letter, saying Monsieur Porthos was flighty and fickle, and she was sure it was because of some woman that he’d been wounded.”

  “What! He’s been wounded!”

  “Ah! My God! What have I said?”

  “You said that Porthos was wounded.”

  “I know—but he forbade me to say so!”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Dame! Because, Monsieur, he’d bragged that he’d perforate that stranger you left him fighting with—but despite all his boasts, it was the stranger who soon had him on the ground. Monsieur Porthos is a very proud man, and he insisted that no one should know he was wounded—except for his duchess, whom he hoped would respond generously to an account of his adventure.”

  “So it’s a wound that’s confined him to bed?”

  “And quite a wound it is, let me tell you. If your friend wasn’t so strong, he’d have given up the ghost.”

  “You saw the duel?”

  “I was curious, Monsieur, so I followed them and saw the fight without being seen myself.”

  “What happened?”

  “It didn’t last long, I can tell you that. They came on guard, then the stranger made a feint and a stab, all so quickly that, by the time Monsieur Porthos tried to parry, he already had three inches of steel in his chest. He fell back like a log. The stranger put the point of his sword to his throat, and Monsieur Porthos, seeing he was at the mercy of his adversary, confessed he was beaten. The stranger demanded his name, but when he learned that name was Monsieur Porthos, and not Monsieur d’Artagnan, he offered monsieur his arm, brought him back to the inn, then mounted his horse and disappeared.”