“Seven thousand livres in gold.”
“Seven thousand livres!” cried Porthos. “That pathetic little diamond was worth seven thousand livres?”
“So it appears,” said Athos, “since here they are. I don’t imagine d’Artagnan has come up with this sum on his own.”
“Messieurs, in our concern for ourselves, we’ve forgotten about the queen,” said d’Artagnan. “We should pay some attention to the health of her beloved Buckingham. That’s the least of what we owe her.”
“That’s only just,” said Athos, “and once again we must turn to Aramis.”
“Very well,” said Aramis, blushing at the compliment. “What shall we say?”
“Nothing could be simpler,” replied Athos. “Compose a second letter to that clever person at Tours.”
Aramis picked up the plume, thought some more, then wrote the following lines, which he immediately submitted to his friends for approval:
My Dearest Cousin—
“Oh, so this clever person is your relative!” said Athos.
“Cousine germaine,” said Aramis.
“All right, cousin it is!”
Aramis continued:
My Dearest Cousin,
His Eminence the Cardinal, whom God preserve for the good fortune of France and the confusion of the enemies of the realm, is on the verge of defeating these heretical rebels of La Rochelle. The English relief fleet will probably never even get within sight of the place. I’ll go so far as to say that I’m certain that Monsieur de Buckingham will be prevented from departing England by some great event. His Eminence is the most illustrious minister of times past, times present, and in all probability for all time to come. He would put out the sun, if the sun inconvenienced him. Pass on this good news to your sister, my dear cousin. I had a dream that this wicked Englishman was dead. I can’t remember whether he fell to steel or to poison, but I am sure of this: I dreamed he was dead, and you know my dreams are never wrong. Rest assured, therefore, that you will soon see me return.
“Perfection!” said Athos. “You are the king of poets, my dear Aramis: you write with the power of the Apocalypse and the truth of the Gospel. Nothing remains but to give this letter an address.”
“Easily done,” said Aramis.
He folded the letter artistically, then picked up the plume and wrote:
To Mademoiselle Marie Michon
Linen maid
Tours
The three friends looked at each other and laughed. Once again, Aramis had outwitted their curiosity.
“Now, Messieurs,” Aramis said, “you realize that no one but Bazin can take this letter to Tours; my cousin knows only Bazin and will trust only him, so no one else can handle this. Besides, Bazin is ambitious and intelligent—he has read history, Messieurs, and knows that Sixtus Quintus became pope after having begun as a swineherd. Eh bien, since he plans to enter the Church when I do, he dares to hope that one day he, too, might become pope—or at least a cardinal. You understand that a man of such ambitions will never allow himself to be taken, and if he is, will suffer martyrdom rather than talk.”
“All right, I accept Bazin, with all my heart,” said d’Artagnan, “but then grant me Planchet. One day Milady had him thrashed and thrown out the door—and he has an excellent memory. I swear that, so long as there’s still a chance for revenge, he’d rather risk death than give it up. If the business in Tours is your business, Aramis, then the business in London is mine. Let’s settle on choosing Planchet, especially since he’s already been to London with me and learned how to say ‘London, sir, if you please,’ and ‘my master, Lord d’Artagnan,’ in proper English. So you can rest easy about him finding his way and returning.”
“In that case,” said Athos, “Planchet should have seven hundred livres for going, and another seven hundred for returning, and Bazin three hundred for going, and three hundred more on his return. That reduces our holdings to five thousand livres; we can each have a thousand livres to employ as we see fit, and we’ll leave the final thousand in the care of Monsieur l’Abbé, for general needs or extraordinary expenses. How’s that?”
“My dear Athos,” said Aramis, “You speak like Nestor, who was, as everyone knows, the wisest of the Greeks.”
“Then it’s agreed,” said Athos. “Planchet and Bazin will be the ones to go. All things considered, I’m not sorry to have Grimaud stay; he’s used to my ways, and I to his. He’s already shaken up by that business yesterday at the bastion; a voyage would be the end of him.”
Planchet was sent for and given his instructions. He was informed of the honor by d’Artagnan, who introduced it to him gradually, touching first on the glory of it, then on the money, and finally the danger.
“I’ll carry the letter in the lining of my coat,” said Planchet, “and if I’m taken, I’ll swallow it.”
“But then you won’t be able to complete the mission,” d’Artagnan said.
“Give me a copy of it this evening and I’ll know it by heart by tomorrow.”
D’Artagnan gave his friends a triumphant look, as if to say, Well, didn’t I promise you?
“All right,” he continued, addressing Planchet, “you have eight days to reach Lord de Winter, and eight more for the return, sixteen days in all. If you’re not here by eight o’clock on the morning of the sixteenth day, no bonus money, even if you’re only five minutes late.”
“In that case, Monsieur,” said Planchet, “I’ll need a watch.”
“Take this one,” said Athos, handing over his own, with his typical casual generosity. “You’re a brave lad. Keep in mind that if you talk, if you get drunk, if you delay, it’s your master’s neck—your master, who has such great faith in your loyalty, and who vouches for you. Keep in mind, also, that if by your failure any evil comes to Monsieur d’Artagnan, I’ll find you, wherever you are, and slice you open from breastbone to belly.”
“Oh, Monsieur!” said Planchet, hurt by such suspicion—and even more, terrified by the musketeer’s calm sincerity.
“And I will skin you alive!” said Porthos, rolling his big eyes.
“Ah! Monsieur!”
“And I,” said Aramis, in his soft and melodious voice, “will grill you slowly over a fire like a savage.”
“Monsieur! Please!” And Planchet began to sob—moved either from terror at all these threats and menaces, or by tenderness at seeing four friends so devoted to one another.
D’Artagnan lifted him up and embraced him. “Look, Planchet,” he said, “these gentlemen only talk this way out of affection for me. They know your true worth, believe me.”
“Oh, Monsieur!” said Planchet. “I will succeed, or be cut into quarters. And even if they cut me into quarters, I swear not a single piece of me will talk!”
It was decided that Planchet should depart at eight the next morning so that during the night, as he’d said, he could learn the letter by heart. He now had to return by eight in the evening of the sixteenth day, so he gained a dozen hours by this arrangement.
In the morning, as Planchet was mounting his horse, d’Artagnan, who in the bottom of his heart had a weakness for the duke, took Planchet aside. “Listen,” he said to him, “when you’ve delivered the letter to Lord de Winter and he’s read it, say this to him also: ‘Watch over His Grace Lord Buckingham, for they mean to assassinate him.’ But see here, Planchet: this is so serious, so important, that I haven’t even told my friends that I’m confiding this secret to you—and I wouldn’t dare commit it to writing, not even for a captain’s commission.”
“Rest easy, Monsieur,” said Planchet. “You’ll see that you can count on me.”
Then, mounted on an excellent horse, which he was to ride for twenty leagues before switching to post-horses, Planchet set off at a gallop, a little anxious about the triple promise made to him by the musketeers, but otherwise with a light heart and high hopes.
Bazin, given eight days to perform his commission, left the following day for Tours.
During the time these two were gone the four friends had, as might be imagined, an eye on the watch, a nose to the wind, and an ear to the ground. Their days were passed in trying to catch every whisper of news, in analyzing the demeanor and behavior of the cardinal, and in noting the arrival of every courier. More than once, when summoned unexpectedly to receive new orders, they found they couldn’t suppress a tremor of fear. They were on constant watch for threats to their lives; Milady was a specter who, once she appeared to haunt someone, never again allowed him to sleep easily.
On the morning of the eighth day Bazin, carefree as ever and smiling as usual, strolled into the Heretic as the four friends were at breakfast. According to plan he recited, “Monsieur Aramis, here’s the reply from your cousin.”
The four friends exchanged looks of joy and relief. Half of the task was done—though admittedly it was the shortest and easiest part.
Blushing in spite of himself, Aramis unfolded the letter, which was written in a sprawling and awkward hand. “Good God!” he cried, laughing. “She’s hopeless! My poor Michon will never make a poet like Monsieur Voiture.”
“What you mean, zis poor Michon?” asked the Swiss, who was chatting with the four friends when the letter arrived.
“Nothing, praise God—less than nothing,” said Aramis. “She’s a charming little linen maid whom I love dearly, and who I’d asked for a few lines as a keepsake.”
“Gott,” said the Swiss, “if der lady is as free with her favors as she is large in her handwriting, you’re a lucky man, comrade!”
Aramis read the letter, said, “Take a look at what she’s written, Athos,” and passed it over to his friend.
Athos cast a quick glance over the contents. Then, to alleviate all suspicion, he read it aloud:
My Dear Cousin,
My sister and I are very good at interpreting dreams, and regard them as fearful portents—but of yours we can hope to say it is nothing but an evil fancy.
Adieu! Take care, and act in such a way that from time to time we may hear of you.
Marie MICHON
“And what dream might that be?” inquired the dragoon, who had approached during the reading.
“Ja, what dream?” said the Swiss.
“Eh? Pardieu,” said Aramis, “nothing much, just a little dream I’d related to her.”
“Ja, ja, everyone tells their dreams when they have some. I don’t dream, me,” said the Swiss.
“You are lucky,” said Athos, rising. “I wish I could say the same.”
“Never!” repeated the Swiss, delighted that a man like Athos could envy him in anything. “Never do I dream! Not once!”
D’Artagnan, seeing Athos rise, did the same, took his arm, and went out with him. Porthos and Aramis stayed behind to suffer the crude humor and worse jokes of the dragoon and the Swiss.
As for Bazin, he went and stretched himself out on a bed of straw. And then, having more imagination than the Swiss, he dreamed: he dreamed that he knelt before Monsieur Aramis, now Pope Aramis I, who placed on his head a red cardinal’s hat.
But Bazin’s happy return alleviated only a portion of the four friends’ anxieties. Days spent waiting are long ones: d’Artagnan, in particular, would have wagered that every day now lasted forty-eight hours. He forgot about the inevitable delays of sea-travel, and exaggerated Milady’s infernal powers. The woman seemed like a demon to him, and he imagined she must have familiars as supernatural as herself. At every unexpected noise he thought he was about to be arrested, or that Planchet had been dragged back to accuse him and his friends. Worse, his confidence in the worthy Picard, once so great, now diminished day by day. His anxiety began to infect Porthos and Aramis. Only Athos remained impassive, as if no danger hung over him, and his everyday life went on as usual.
By the sixteenth day, d’Artagnan and his two friends were visibly agitated. They couldn’t sit still and wandered aimlessly about the camp, always returning to the road on which Planchet would return.
“Really, now,” Athos said to them, “how can you let a mere woman frighten you so? You’re not men, you’re children! What’s the worst that can happen? We get sent to prison. If so, we’ll get out of it; after all, Madame Bonacieux got out. And suppose they do cut off our heads? Every single day, in the trenches, we cheerfully expose ourselves to worse than that—for a bullet might break your leg, and I’m convinced it would be worse to have a surgeon take off your leg than to have an executioner take off your head. Calm down; in two hours, maybe four, maybe six at the most, Planchet will be here. He promised he would, and I have faith in Planchet’s promises. He’s a brave lad, Planchet.”
“But what if he doesn’t come?” said d’Artagnan.
“Well, if he doesn’t come, it’s because he’s been delayed, that’s all. He may have fallen from his horse; he may have gone over the side of a bridge; he may have ridden so fast that the wind gave him a rheum in the chest. There are always accidents, Gentlemen! Life is a cat’s-cradle of little miseries that the philosopher untangles with a smile. Be philosophers, like me, Messieurs—pull up a chair, and let’s drink. Nothing makes the future look rosier than viewing it through a glass of chambertin.”
“That’s all very well for you,” replied d’Artagnan, “but I’m afraid, at every sip, that what I drink comes from Milady’s wine cellar.”
“You are very difficult,” said Athos. “And about such a beautiful woman too!”
“A woman of the finest brand!” said Porthos, laughing loudly at his joke.
But it made Athos start. He ran his hand across his brow to wipe away a sudden cold sweat, and with a nervous shiver he couldn’t quite suppress, he rose and took his leave.
The day passed slowly, and though evening was long in coming, it finally arrived. The taverns filled with customers, and Athos, pockets full of his share of the diamond, installed himself in the Heretic. Monsieur de Busigny—who, by the way, had given them a magnificent dinner—had turned out to be a gaming partner worthy of Athos. They were playing together, as usual, when seven o’clock sounded, and they could hear the tramp of the patrols passing to double the posts at the perimeter.
Then, at half past seven, the drums beat the retreat.
“We are lost,” d’Artagnan said, in Athos’s ear.
“You mean to say we have lost,” said Athos placidly, drawing four pistoles from his pocket and throwing them on the table. “Come, Messieurs,” he continued, “there sounds the retreat. Let’s go to bed.”
And Athos left the Heretic, followed by d’Artagnan. Aramis came behind, arm in arm with Porthos. Aramis muttered verses distractedly, while Porthos, in despair, plucked bristles from his moustache.
But all at once, out of the darkness appeared a shadowy form, the shape of which was familiar to d’Artagnan, and a voice he recognized said to him, “I’ve brought your cloak, Monsieur, as the air is chilly this evening.”
“Planchet!” cried d’Artagnan, overcome with joy.
“Planchet!” repeated Porthos and Aramis.
“Well, of course it’s Planchet,” said Athos. “What’s so astounding about that? He promised to be back by eight o’clock, and eight is just striking now. Bravo, Planchet! You’re a man of your word, and if you ever leave your master, there will always be a place for you in my service.”
“Oh, no, Monsieur!” said Planchet. “I would never leave Monsieur d’Artagnan.” Meanwhile, d’Artagnan felt Planchet slipping a note into his hand.
D’Artagnan had a strong urge to give Planchet an embrace like the one he’d given him on his departure, but he restrained himself, afraid that showing affection to a lackey in the middle of the street might seem strange to passersby.
“There’s a note,” he told his friends.
“Good,” said Athos. “Let’s return to our quarters and read it.”
The note burned in d’Artagnan’s hand. He wanted to hurry, to step up their pace, but Athos passed his arm through d’Artagnan’s, and the young man had no choice but
to walk in time with his friend.
Eventually they arrived at their tent, lit a lamp, and while Planchet stood guard at the door so they couldn’t be surprised, d’Artagnan, with trembling hands, broke the seal and opened the anxiously awaited letter.
It contained only half a line of English, in handwriting unmistakably British, with a brevity that was positively Spartan:
Thank you. Don’t worry.
“What does it say?” said d’Artagnan.
“Thank you. Don’t worry,” Athos translated. He took the letter from d’Artagnan’s hand, approached the lamp, set fire to the paper, and didn’t release it until it was reduced to ashes.
Then, calling Planchet, Athos said, “Now, my lad, you can claim your seven hundred livres, though you didn’t risk much bearing a note like that one.”
“You can’t blame me for wanting it kept short,” said Planchet.
“Well, tell us about it!” said d’Artagnan.
“Dame! It’s a long story, Monsieur.”
“You’re right, Planchet,” said Athos. “Besides, they’ve beaten the retreat, and someone will notice if we keep a lamp burning unusually long.”
“So be it,” said d’Artagnan. “To bed! Sleep well, Planchet.”
“My faith, Monsieur! If I do, it’ll be the first time in sixteen days!”
“The same for me!” said d’Artagnan.
“And me, as well,” said Aramis.
“Me too!” said Porthos.
“Well, to tell you the truth,” said Athos, “the same goes for me!”
XLIX
The Hand of Fate
Meanwhile Milady, wild with fury, was roaring on the deck of the ship like a captured lioness. She was tempted to plunge into the sea to regain the shore, for she couldn’t bear the idea that she’d been insulted by d’Artagnan and threatened by Athos, and then compelled to leave France before she could take her revenge. This thought soon grew so intolerable that she implored the captain to put her ashore, despite the risk of terrible consequences for herself. But the captain, intent on escaping from that dangerous zone where he risked being caught between French and English cruisers, like the fabled bat caught between the rats and the birds, was in great haste to reach England. He obstinately refused to submit to what he took for a feminine caprice, but he did promise his passenger, whom the cardinal wanted treated with special care, that he would try to put in to one of the Breton ports, either Lorient or Brest, weather (and the French navy) permitting.