But Athos continued to march majestically, no matter what his companions said. Seeing that their protests were pointless, the others adopted Athos’s measured pace.
Grimaud and his basket were already far ahead, out of the danger zone. Suddenly a furious fusillade burst out behind them. “What’s that?” demanded Porthos. “And just who are they firing at? I don’t see anyone, and I heard no shots.”
“They’re shooting at the dead,” replied Athos.
“But the dead can’t shoot back.”
“Quite so. But the Rochelois will think it’s an ambush. They’ll take it slowly, scout out the situation, and by the time they discover our little pleasantry we’ll be well out of range. That’s why there’s no point in risking heart failure by hurrying.”
“Oh! I get it!” said Porthos, amazed.
“Well done,” said Athos, with a shrug of his shoulders.
On their side, the French, seeing the four friends return at a deliberate march, cheered their throats out. Eventually there was another fusillade from behind, and this time the balls whistled past their ears and spattered off nearby stones. The Rochelois had finally retaken the bastion.
“What oafs those fellows are,” said Athos. “How many did we shoot? A dozen?”
“Maybe fifteen.”
“And how many did we crush under the wall?”
“Eight or ten.”
“And in exchange for all that we didn’t even get a scratch? But wait—what have you done to your hand, d’Artagnan? You’re bleeding, it seems to me.”
“It’s nothing,” said d’Artagnan.
“A spent bullet?”
“Not even that.”
“Then what is it?”
As has been said before, Athos loved d’Artagnan like his own son, and his somber and severe personality now gave way to the solicitude of a father.
“It’s just a little cut,” d’Artagnan replied. “My fingers got caught between two stones, and my ring gouged my hand.”
“That will teach you to wear diamonds into battle,” Athos said disdainfully.
“But wait!” cried Porthos. “If we have a diamond, why the devil are we plaguing ourselves about how to find some money?”
“Say, now . . .” said Aramis.
“A good point, Porthos,” said Athos. “This time you really do have an idea.”
“Of course I do,” said Porthos, puffed up with pleasure at receiving a compliment from Athos. “If we have a diamond, let’s sell it.”
“But,” said d’Artagnan, “this diamond comes from the queen.”
“All the more reason,” replied Athos. “The queen rescuing her lover Monsieur de Buckingham is only proper; the queen saving us, her loyal friends, is only moral. What do you say, Monsieur l’Abbé? I don’t ask Porthos; he’s given us his opinion already.”
“Well, I think that as the ring wasn’t a gift from a mistress,” said Aramis, with a blush, “and therefore isn’t a gage d’amour, d’Artagnan can sell it.”
“My dear Aramis, you speak like theology incarnate. So your opinion is . . . ?”
“Sell the diamond.”
“All right, then,” d’Artagnan said cheerfully, “we’ll sell the diamond and say no more about it.”
The rebel fusillade continued, but the friends were now out of range, and the Rochelois were only firing from a sense of duty.
“My faith, Porthos,” Athos said, “It was high time for you to have your idea, for here we are at camp. Remember, Messieurs, not a word about this business. Look, they’ve seen us, and are coming to meet us. It appears we shall be borne in in triumph.”
In fact, the entire camp was abuzz with excitement. An audience of over two thousand had watched, as at a spectacle, this act of bravado on the part of the four friends, without anyone suspecting the real motivation for it. From every side came cries of “Vivent les Gardes! Vivent les Mousquetaires!”
Monsieur de Busigny was the first to shake Athos’s hand and admit the wager was lost. The dragoon and the Swiss followed him, and all their comrades came behind. There were congratulations, backslapping, and embraces all around, with endless gibes at the expense of the Rochelois. Eventually, the commotion grew so great that Monsieur le Cardinal thought there must be some sort of riot, and sent La Houdinière, a captain of his guards, to see what was going on. The captain was told the tale in all its glory.
“Well?” demanded the cardinal, when La Houdinière returned. “Well, Monseigneur,” the latter said, “it seems three musketeers and a guard laid a bet with Monsieur de Busigny that they would breakfast in the Saint-Gervais bastion. They had their breakfast, held out for two hours against the enemy, and killed I don’t know how many Rochelois.”
“Did you learn the names of these three musketeers?”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“What are they called?”
“Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.”
“Always those three champions!” murmured the cardinal. “And the guard?”
“A Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“That young rogue again! Decidedly, I must make these four men mine.”
That evening, the cardinal spoke to Monsieur de Tréville about the morning’s exploit, which was the talk of the whole camp. Tréville, who’d had the story of the adventure from the mouths of the heroes themselves, related it in all its detail to His Eminence, not forgetting the episode of the napkin.
“Excellent, Monsieur de Tréville,” said the cardinal. “Send me that napkin, if you please. I’ll have it embroidered with three gold fleurs-des-lys and present it to your company as a battle flag.”
“Monseigneur, that would be an injustice to the guards,” said Monsieur de Tréville. “Monsieur d’Artagnan isn’t one of mine, he belongs to Monsieur des Essarts.”
“Well, then, take him,” said the cardinal. “It’s only fair that four brave soldiers who are so attached to one another should serve in the same company.”
Later that same evening, Monsieur de Tréville announced the good news to d’Artagnan and the three musketeers, inviting all four to breakfast with him in the morning.
D’Artagnan was dazed with joy. Becoming a musketeer was his dearest dream. His three friends were just as gleeful.
“My faith, Athos,” d’Artagnan said, “what a magnificent idea you had! As you predicted, we’re covered in glory, plus we were able to have a conversation of critical importance.”
“Which we can now resume without being under a cloud of suspicion, for from now on, with God’s help, we’ll be taken for Cardinalists,” Athos said.
D’Artagnan immediately went to pay his compliments to Monsieur des Essarts and inform him of his promotion. Des Essarts, who valued d’Artagnan, made him offers of promotion in his own company, a promotion that wouldn’t require the expense of outfitting to join the musketeers. D’Artagnan declined, but seeing an opportunity, asked the captain if he could get him a good price for his diamond, as he wanted to turn it into cash.
The next afternoon, Monsieur des Essarts’s valet came to d’Artagnan’s quarters, carrying a bag containing seven thousand livres.
This was the price of the queen’s diamond.
XLVIII
A Family Affair
“A family affair”: Athos had come up with the phrase. A family affair was not subject to investigation by the cardinal. A family affair concerned no one outside the family. One could uphold the privacy of a family affair against a world of intruders.
Thus, Athos, had come up with the why: the matter was to be called a family affair. Aramis had come up with the who: they would employ the lackeys. And Porthos had come up with the how: they would sell the diamond.
Only d’Artagnan had come up with nothing, though he was ordinarily the most inventive of the four. But in this case, just the name “Milady” was enough to paralyze him.
But no, that’s not quite right: d’Artagnan had found a buyer for the diamond.
The breakfast next morning at
Monsieur de Tréville’s was as merry as a carnival. D’Artagnan showed up already dressed in his new uniform—for he and Aramis were similar in size, and since Aramis had been paid so well by the publisher who’d purchased his poem he’d bought two of everything, which enabled him to completely outfit his friend.
D’Artagnan would have felt like he’d reached the apex of his ambitions if it weren’t for Milady, the dark cloud on all his horizons.
After breakfast, they agreed to reunite that evening at Athos’s quarters, where they would finish the business begun in the bastion.
D’Artagnan passed the day displaying his musketeer’s tabard in every corner of the camp.
The four friends reconvened at the appointed hour in the evening. There were only three things left to decide: what to write to Milady’s brother-in-law; what to write to the clever person in Tours; and which lackeys should carry the letters.
Each offered his own lackey. Athos praised the discretion of Grimaud, who never spoke unless his master unsealed his mouth; Porthos boasted that Mousqueton was strong enough to thrash four ordinary men; Aramis, in a pompous eulogy, extolled the shrewdness and suavity of Bazin; and d’Artagnan expressed his complete faith in the courage of Planchet, reminding them of the way he’d handled himself in that sticky affair at Calais. They disputed the virtues of discretion, strength, shrewdness, and courage for a far longer time than bears repeating here.
“Unfortunately,” Athos said, “whoever we send should have all four of these qualities combined.”
“But where could we find such a paragon among lackeys?”
“Nowhere, as we know too well,” said Athos. “So take Grimaud.”
“Take Bazin.”
“Take Mousqueton!”
“Take Planchet; Planchet is both brave and shrewd, so he has at least two qualities of the four.”
“Messieurs,” said Aramis, “the principal here is not to determine which of our four lackeys is most discreet, strong, shrewd, or brave; it’s to identify which one loves money the most.”
“What Aramis says makes sense,” said Athos. “We must consider men’s faults before their virtues. Monsieur l’Abbé, you are a moralist par excellence.”
“I say this,” Aramis continued, “because for this mission to succeed, we must not only be well served, but that service must not fail. For if the mission is lost, heads will be lost—and not the lackeys’ . . .”
“Not so loud, Aramis,” said Athos.
“Quite,” Aramis said. “I repeat: it’s not the lackeys who will lose their heads, but their masters! Are our servants so devoted that they’ll risk their lives for us?” He shook his head. “No.”
“My faith—I’d just about answer for Planchet on that score,” said d’Artagnan.
“Then, mon cher ami, bolster this natural devotion with a cash bonus large enough to set him up comfortably, and instead of answering for him once,” said Aramis, “answer for him twice.”
“What? Good God, you’ll only be deluded twice,” said Athos, who was an optimist about matters of chance, but a pessimist about mankind. “A servant will promise you the world for a handful of money, but once he’s on the road he’ll be paralyzed by fear. If taken, he’ll be tortured, and if tortured, he’ll talk. What the devil! You’re speaking like children! To get to England”—Athos lowered his voice—“you must cross half of France, past all the cardinal’s agents and spies. Then you need an embarkation pass; and then you must speak English to find your way to London. The thing is damnably difficult.”
“But not at all!” said d’Artagnan, who badly wanted the mission accomplished. “On the contrary, I think it’s quite simple. Now, it goes without saying that if we write to Lord de Winter describing the threatening schemes of the fiendish cardinal . . .”
“Not so loud!” said Athos.
“. . . And reveal official state secrets,” d’Artagnan continued, “then of course we’d all be broken on the wheel. But for God’s sake, don’t forget, Athos, that as you yourself said, we’re writing solely about a family affair. We just need to request that as soon as Milady reaches London, she should be locked away someplace where she can’t hurt us. I’ll write him a letter in almost exactly those terms.” “Let’s hear it, then,” said Aramis, with a skeptical expression. “All right. Ahem: ‘Monsieur et cher ami. . .’”
“Oh, that’s good: ‘dear friend,’ to an Englishman,” interrupted Athos. “A fine start, d’Artagnan—bravo! Except that with phrases like that, you won’t be broken on the wheel, you’ll be drawn and quartered.”
“All right, then, I’ll just say, ‘Monsieur’ and keep it short.”
“Better would be ‘Milord,’” replied Athos, a stickler for propriety.
“Milord: Do you recall that little goat pen of the Luxembourg?”
“Oh, excellent—now the Luxembourg is a goat pen! Quite ingenious. Except it could be taken for an insult to the queen mother,” said Athos.
“Then we’ll just say, ‘Milord: Do you recall a certain little enclosure where your life was spared?’”
“My dear d’Artagnan,” said Athos, “you are an appalling correspondent. ‘Where your life was spared’—shame on you! To remind a gallant man of that kind of obligation simply isn’t done. To refer to such a favor is an insult.”
“Parbleu! This is intolerable,” said d’Artagnan. “If one has to be subjected to this sort of criticism to be a writer, I give up.”
“As well you should, mon cher,” said Athos. “Stick to your musket and sword and you’ll do admirably. But pass the plume to Monsieur l’Abbé—that’s his province.”
“That’s right! Pass the plume to Aramis,” said Porthos. “He writes theses in Latin, he does.”
“Well, so be it!” said d’Artagnan. “You draw up this document, Aramis. But, by our Holy Father the Pope, choose your words carefully, because this time I’m editing you.”
“I couldn’t ask for better,” said Aramis, with the sublime selfconfidence of the poet. “Let’s just make sure I’ve got the gist: I’ve been told that this sister-in-law is an iniquitous woman, and heard the proof of it myself when we eavesdropped on her conversation with the cardinal.”
“Not so loud, sacre bleu!” said Athos.
“But I must admit,” continued Aramis, “that the details escape me.”
“Me too,” said Porthos.
D’Artagnan and Athos looked at each other in silence for some time. Finally Athos, seeing no option, blanched and nodded to d’Artagnan, who took this to mean that he was free to speak.
“Well, here is the essence of what you must say,” said d’Artagnan. “Milord: your sister-in-law is a liar, an impostor, and worse. She wanted to have you killed so she could inherit your estate. However, she was never legally married to your brother, because she was already married in France, and having been . . .” D’Artagnan stopped, as if at a loss for the right word, and looked at Athos.
“Repudiated by her husband,” Athos said.
D’Artagnan nodded. “Repudiated, because he discovered she’d been branded . . .”
“Bah!” Porthos grunted. “This is ridiculous! You say she wanted to have her own brother-in-law killed?”
“Yes.”
“She was previously married?” asked Aramis.
“Yes.”
“And her husband discovered she had the fleur-de-lys branded on her shoulder?” said Porthos.
“Yes.”
All three yeses had been spoken by Athos, his voice growing progressively darker.
“And who has actually seen this fleur-de-lys?” asked Aramis.
“D’Artagnan and I—or rather, to be strictly chronological, I and d’Artagnan,” said Athos.
“And this appalling creature’s husband is still alive?” said Aramis.
“He’s still alive.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“I am sure—because I am he.”
There was an instant of frozen quiet as the friends dealt with t
his statement, each according to his nature.
Athos was the first to break the silence. “This time,” he said, “d’Artagnan has given us an excellent outline, and it should be written out at once.”
“Diable! You’re right, Athos,” said Aramis, “but composing it will be touchy. Monsieur the Chancellor himself would have trouble drawing up such an epistle, though he writes a procès-verbal with ease. But no matter! Silence, if you please, and I’ll give it a try.”
Aramis took up the pen, reflected for a minute, then wrote eight or ten lines in a tiny, almost feminine handwriting. Then, in a voice soft and slow, as if each word had been painstakingly considered, he read:
Milord,
The person inscribing these lines had the honor to cross swords with you in a little yard off the Rue d’Enfer. As you have obliged him several times since then by professing to be his friend, this person considers it his duty to repay that friendship with a warning. Twice you have nearly fallen victim to a close relative, a woman you believe to be your heir, because you are ignorant of the fact that before she contracted a marriage in England, she was already married in France. At the third attempt on your life, which is imminent, you may succumb. Be warned that your relative departed La Rochelle for England during the night. Watch for her arrival, for she has great and terrible schemes. If you absolutely must know of what she is capable, her past can be read on the flesh of her left shoulder.
“Well, that’s really quite good,” said Athos. “My dear Aramis, you have a plume as sharp as a secretary of state. Lord de Winter will now be on his guard—assuming this letter reaches him. Even if it falls into His Eminence’s hands, we won’t be compromised. But to make sure the lackey who carries it goes all the way to London instead of just stopping in Châtellerault, let’s give him no more than half his pay with the letter, the second half to be paid in exchange for a response. D’Artagnan, do you have the diamond?”
“What I have is even better: the diamond’s value in cash.” And d’Artagnan dropped a leather sack on the table. At the heavy sound of gold, Aramis raised his eyebrows and Porthos started.
Only Athos remained impassive. “How much is in this little sack?” he asked.