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

  “Oh ho! Are you going to take that tone, Monsieur Gascon? I see I must teach you how to behave.”

  “And I, I will send you back to your mass, Monsieur l’Abbé! Draw, if you please, and instantly!”

  “Not now, mon bel ami; or at least, not here. Has it escaped your notice that we are just outside the hôtel of Madame de Combalet, which is full of the cardinal’s creatures? How do I know His Eminence hasn’t charged you with bringing him my head? I’m ridiculously partial to my head, as it seems to go so well with my shoulders. No, you shall die, rest assured—but quietly, and in privacy, someplace where you won’t be able to boast to anyone of your death.”

  “Agreed—but don’t be so sure of success. And take the handkerchief, whether or not it belongs to you; you may have occasion to need it.”

  “Monsieur is that much the Gascon, then?” asked Aramis.

  “I am. Monsieur isn’t postponing this rendezvous through an excess of prudence?”

  “Prudence, Monsieur, is a virtue quite useless to musketeers—but indispensable to men of the Church, and as I’m only a temporary musketeer, I’m prudent when I choose to be. At two o’clock I shall have the honor of awaiting you at the hôtel of Monsieur de Tréville. There I’ll name the site for our meeting.”

  The two young men bowed, then parted, Aramis going up the street that led to the Luxembourg. D’Artagnan, seeing his appointed hour with Athos was nearly due, took the road to the Carmelite convent, saying to himself, “I certainly can’t turn back now—but at least, if I’m to be killed, I’ll be killed by a musketeer!”

  V

  The King’s Musketeers and the Cardinal’s Guards

  D’Artagnan knew no one in Paris, so he went to his rendezvous with Athos without a second, resolved to be content with whomever his adversary should choose. Besides, he intended to make all proper apologies to the brave musketeer, though without displaying any weakness. He wanted to avoid the usual outcome of a duel in which a young and vigorous man takes on an adversary who is weak from wounds: if he lost, it would be a double triumph for his antagonist; if he won, he’d be accused of false courage and taking advantage of the other’s weakness.

  It must be clear by this point that d’Artagnan was no ordinary man. Though telling himself his death was inevitable, he refused to accept that death with resignation, as a less courageous man might have done in his place. He reflected on the different characters of his three antagonists and began to see his course more clearly. He hoped, by means of gracious and dignified excuses, to make a friend of Athos, whose air of nobility and whose austere demeanor he admired. He flattered himself he could intimidate Porthos by threatening to reveal the secret of the baldric, which, if he weren’t killed on the spot, he could spread about to everyone. If he told the tale properly Porthos would be a laughingstock. As for sly Aramis, he wasn’t very afraid of him. If he should manage to make it that far, he felt confident he’d make short work of him, or at least mar his face, spoiling the beauty of which he was so proud, as Caesar had recommended be done to the soldiers of Pompey.

  Above all, d’Artagnan was determined to follow his father’s advice to endure nothing from anyone but the king, the cardinal, and Monsieur de Tréville. So he didn’t just walk toward the Carmelite convent, he flew.

  The Carmes-Deschaux,22 as it was then called, was a windowless building standing in an empty field adjacent to the meadow of Préaux-Clercs. It often served as a nearby rendezvous for antagonists with no time to waste. When d’Artagnan came in sight of the open ground at the foot of the convent, Athos had been waiting for only five minutes, and the bell in the tower was tolling twelve noon. Thus d’Artagnan was as punctual as the Samaritaine,23 and the most rigorous interpreter of the code duello24 could have no complaint.

  Athos, still suffering cruelly from his wound, though it had been dressed by Tréville’s surgeon, was sitting on a milestone and awaiting his adversary with that calm demeanor and noble air that never left him. At the sight of d’Artagnan he rose and stepped politely forward to meet him. D’Artagnan, on his part, met his adversary hat in hand, feather almost touching the ground.

  “Monsieur,” said Athos, “I have invited two of my friends to serve as seconds, but they have not yet arrived. I’m surprised, as it’s not at all customary for them to be late for an occasion of this sort.”

  “I myself have no seconds, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, “for having arrived only yesterday in Paris, so far I know only Monsieur de Tréville. I was recommended to him by my father, who has the honor to be, in some degree, one of his friends.”

  Athos reflected for a moment. “You know no one but Monsieur de Tréville?”

  “No, Monsieur. I know only him.”

  “Ah, but then,” continued Athos, speaking half to himself and half to d’Artagnan, “if I kill you, I shall be called a child-eater.”

  “Not quite,” replied d’Artagnan, with a dignified bow, “for you do me the honor to cross swords with me while hampered by a very painful wound.”

  “Very painful indeed, you may take my word for it. You gave me a devil of a thump, I can tell you. But I’ll fight left-handed, as I usually do in such circumstances. Don’t think I’m doing you a favor, as I fight with either hand. In fact, it may be a disadvantage for you; a left-handed opponent can be a problem if one isn’t used to them. I regret not having informed you of this earlier.”

  “Truly, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, bowing once again, “you display a courtesy that I very much appreciate.”

  “You do me too much honor,” replied Athos, with the air of a gentleman. “Let’s speak of something else, I beg. Ah! Sangbleu! How you hurt me! My shoulder is on fire.”

  “If you would permit me . . .” d’Artagnan said timidly.

  “What, Monsieur?”

  “I have a miraculous balm for wounds, a balm given to me by my mother, and which I’ve already proven upon myself.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, I’m sure that in three days this balm would cure you. Once you’re cured . . . it would still be a great honor for me to meet with you.”

  D’Artagnan said these words with a sincerity that ensured their politeness, without casting any doubt on his courage.

  “By God, Monsieur,” said Athos, “your proposition pleases me; I can’t accept it, but it savors of the gentleman a league off. That’s how the brave knights spoke in the time of Charlemagne, and every cavalier should make them his model. Unfortunately, we don’t live in the time of the Great Emperor, but in the time of Monsieur le Cardinal, and no matter how secret we kept it, within three days he’d know of our rendezvous and put a stop to our duel. Speaking of which, will these laggards never arrive?”

  “If you’re pressed for time, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, with the same simplicity with which a moment before he’d proposed to postpone the duel three days, “if you’re in a hurry, and would like to dispose of me at once, don’t delay on my account, I beg you.”

  “I admire your way of speaking,” said Athos, with a gracious nod to d’Artagnan. “That’s not the remark of a man without brains, still less a man without heart. Monsieur, I love men of your stamp. I can see that, if we don’t kill each other, I shall enjoy conversing with you hereafter. We’ll wait for the seconds, if you don’t mind. I have plenty of time, and it will make the affair more correct. Ah! Here’s one now, I believe.”

  In fact, from the end of the Rue de Vaugirard, the gigantic form of Porthos began to appear.

  “What!” cried d’Artagnan. “Your first second is Monsieur Porthos?”

  “Yes. Does that displease you?”

  “No, by no means.”

  “And here’s the other one.”

  D’Artagnan turned toward where Athos pointed and recognized Aramis.

  “What!” cried he, even more astonished. “Is your other second Monsieur Aramis?”

  “Of course. Don’t you know that none of us are ever seen without the others, and that we’re known, by the musket
eers and the guards, at Court and in the city, as the Three Inseparables? Perhaps, since you come from Dax or from Pau . . .”

  “From Tarbes,” said d’Artagnan.

  “Ah. You may, then, be somewhat ignorant of these details,” said Athos.

  “My faith!” said d’Artagnan, “you are well-named, Messieurs. My adventure here, if anyone hears of it, will certainly prove your alliance isn’t based on your differences.”

  Meanwhile Porthos arrived, waved a greeting to Athos, and then, turning toward d’Artagnan, froze in astonishment. (Let it be noted, in passing, that he’d changed his baldric and given up his cloak.)

  “What? What?” he said. “What does this mean?”

  “It is with monsieur, here, that I’m going to fight,” said Athos, indicating d’Artagnan with his hand, and saluting him with the same gesture.

  “But . . . but I’m to fight with him also!” said Porthos.

  “But not until one o’clock,” replied d’Artagnan.

  “And I’m to fight with monsieur as well,” said Aramis, arriving.

  “But not until two o’clock,” said d’Artagnan, with the same nonchalance.

  “But why are you fighting him, Athos?” asked Aramis.

  “My faith, I can’t quite say. Ah, yes—he hurt my shoulder. And you, Porthos?”

  “My faith, I fight . . . because I fight!” answered Porthos, coloring.

  Athos, who missed nothing, saw a faint smile touch the Gascon’s lips. “We had a discussion about wardrobe,” the young man said.

  “And you, Aramis?” asked Athos.

  “We are fighting over theology,” answered Aramis, making a sign to d’Artagnan to keep quiet about the reason for their duel.

  Athos saw a second smile cross d’Artagnan’s lips. “Really?” said Athos.

  “Oh, yes—a passage in Saint Augustine upon which we couldn’t agree,” said the Gascon.

  “Decidedly, this man has his wits about him,” murmured Athos.

  “And now that you’re assembled, Messieurs,” said d’Artagnan, “permit me to make my excuses.”

  At the word excuses, Athos’s brow clouded, a contemptuous smile touched Porthos’s lips, and Aramis made a gesture of refusal.

  “You misunderstand me, Messieurs,” said d’Artagnan, throwing back his head, its bold angles gilded by the sun. “I ask to be excused in case I may not be able to pay my debt of honor to all three of you. Monsieur Athos has the first right to kill me, which seriously devalues your claim, Monsieur Porthos, and renders yours, Monsieur Aramis, nearly worthless. And so I repeat, Messieurs, please excuse me—but only on that account. Now, en garde!”

  At these words, with the air of a true cavalier, d’Artagnan drew his sword. The blood had risen to his head, and at that moment he would gladly have drawn his blade against all the musketeers in the realm.

  It was a quarter past noon. The sun was at its zenith, and the ground chosen as the theater of the duel was exposed to its full power.

  “It’s quite hot,” said Athos, drawing his sword in his turn, “and yet I can’t remove my doublet, for I can tell my wound is bleeding, and I wouldn’t care to disturb Monsieur with a flow of blood that he’s not drawn from me himself.”

  “Well said, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan. “Drawn by myself, or by another, I assure you I’ll always be sorry to see the blood of such a brave gentleman. I’ll fight in my doublet, like you.”

  “See here, see here,” said Porthos, “enough of these compliments. Are we to wait all day to take our turns?”

  “Speak for yourself, Porthos, when you speak so inappropriately,” interrupted Aramis. “As for me, I find what they say very well said, entirely worthy of two such gentlemen.”

  “When you please, Monsieur,” said Athos, coming on guard.

  “I await your command,” said d’Artagnan, crossing swords.

  But the two rapiers had scarcely touched when a squad of His Eminence’s guards, commanded by Monsieur de Jussac, came around the corner of the convent.

  “The Cardinal’s Guards!” cried Aramis and Porthos. “Sheathe swords, Messieurs! Sheathe swords!”

  But it was too late. The two combatants had been seen in a position that left no doubt as to their intentions.

  “Holà!” cried Jussac, advancing toward them, and signaling his men to do likewise. “Holà! Musketeers, here, and preparing to fight? And the edicts, what of them, eh?”

  “You are generous men, Messieurs Guards,” said Athos, though with some hostility, as Jussac had been one of the attackers of the day before. “If we were to see you fighting, I’d say let them fight without hindrance. Leave us be, then, and you may enjoy some free entertainment.”

  “Messieurs,” said Jussac, “I very much regret to say the thing is impossible. Duty before all. So sheathe, if you please, and follow us.”

  “Monsieur,” said Aramis, parodying Jussac, “it would give us great pleasure to obey your gracious invitation, if it were up to us. But unfortunately, the thing is impossible. Monsieur de Tréville has forbidden it. Therefore, be on your way, if you know what’s good for you.”

  This raillery exasperated Jussac. He said, “If you disobey, we will charge you.”

  “They are five,” said Athos in an undertone, “and we are only three; we’ll be beaten again, and must die on the spot, for I swear, I’ll never again appear defeated before the captain.”

  Athos, Porthos, and Aramis instantly closed in, while Jussac drew his soldiers together.

  This brief moment was enough for d’Artagnan to choose his path. It was one of those events that decide a man’s life; a choice, between the king and the cardinal, that once made is irrevocable. To fight was to break the law, to risk his head, and to make in one stroke an enemy of a minister more powerful than the king himself. All this the young man foresaw, and to his credit he didn’t hesitate a second. Turning toward Athos and his friends, he said, “Messieurs, may I make so bold as to correct you? You said you were only three, but it seems to me we are four.”

  “But you’re not one of us,” said Porthos.

  “That’s true,” answered d’Artagnan. “I lack the uniform, but I’m with you in spirit. I have the heart of a musketeer, Monsieur—I feel it, and must follow where it leads.”

  “Step aside, young man,” called Jussac, who had guessed d’Artagnan’s plans, no doubt from his gestures and expression. “You may retire, with our consent. Save your skin; be off!”

  D’Artagnan stayed put.

  “What a fine fellow you are,” said Athos, gripping the young man’s hand.

  “Come, come! Make up your minds,” called Jussac.

  “See here,” said Porthos, “we must do something.”

  “Young man, you are generous to a fault,” said Athos. But all three were worried about d’Artagnan’s youth and inexperience. “We’ll be but three, one of us wounded, plus a boy,” resumed Athos, “but it will nonetheless be said we were four men.”

  “Yes, but to surrender!” said Porthos.

  “It is rather difficult,” replied Athos.

  D’Artagnan understood their indecision. “Messieurs, give me a try,” he said, “and I swear to you on my honor that they won’t take me from here alive.”

  “What are you called, mon brave?” said Athos.

  “D’Artagnan, Monsieur.”

  “Well, then: Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan—forward!” cried Athos.

  “See here, Gentlemen, have you decided to decide?” called Jussac, for the third time.

  “We’re ready, Messieurs,” said Athos.

  “And may we know your plans?” asked Jussac.

  “We’re about to have the honor of charging you,” replied Aramis, tipping his hat with one hand while drawing his sword with the other.

  “So! You resist!” cried Jussac.

  “God’s blood! Are you surprised?”

  And the nine combatants rushed each other with fury—but not without method. Athos took on a certain Cahusac,
a favorite of the cardinal; Porthos had Biscarat; and Aramis found himself facing two adversaries. As for d’Artagnan, he dashed at Jussac himself. The young Gascon’s heart pounded as if it would burst from his chest, not from fear—by the grace of God, he hadn’t a shadow of that— but from excitement and exhilaration. He fought like a furious tiger, turning ten times around his adversary, repeatedly changing his ground and his guard. Jussac was, as they said then, a connoisseur of the blade, and quite experienced, but he was hard put to defend himself against an adversary who leaped so agilely this way and that, attacking from all sides at once, while parrying like a man with the greatest respect for his own skin.

  Eventually Jussac began to lose patience with this contest. Furious at being held in check by one he’d regarded as a boy, he got angry and began to make mistakes. D’Artagnan redoubled his nimble attacks; though short on experience, he had a profound natural instinct for fencing. Jussac, fed up at last, made a savage thrust at his adversary, but d’Artagnan managed to parry it, and while Jussac was recovering, d’Artagnan slid like a serpent under his steel and passed his sword through his body. Jussac fell like a dead weight.

  D’Artagnan then anxiously surveyed the field of battle. Aramis had killed one of his adversaries, but the other was pressing him hard. Nevertheless, Aramis’s situation was good, and he was well able to defend himself.

  Biscarat and Porthos had wounded each other: Porthos had taken a thrust through the arm, and Biscarat through his thigh. But the wounds weren’t serious, and they just fought with all the more determination.

  Athos, wounded anew by Cahusac, was visibly paler, but hadn’t retreated a foot; he’d only changed his sword hand and now fought with his left.

  D’Artagnan, according to the laws of dueling of the time, was free to aid whomever he liked. While he tried to decide which of his companions most needed his help, he caught a glance from Athos, a glance of sublime eloquence. Athos would rather die than call for help; but he could look, and his look could appeal. D’Artagnan understood, and with a single bound he fell on Cahusac’s flank, crying, “Look to me, Monsieur le Garde, or die!”