Cahusac turned. It was time, for Athos, who’d been held together only by his great courage, fell to one knee. “God’s blood!” he cried to d’Artagnan. “Don’t kill him, young man, I beg you. I have an old grudge to settle with him when I’m cured and in good health. Just disarm him—bind his sword. That’s it! Good! Well done!” Athos cried, as Cahusac’s sword went flying twenty paces from him. Cahusac and d’Artagnan sprang forward together, the one to recover the sword, the other to seize it, but d’Artagnan, more nimble, reached it first and placed his foot on it.
Cahusac ran to the body of the man Aramis had killed and grabbed his rapier, then returned toward d’Artagnan—but on his way he met Athos. The musketeer had recovered his breath during the pause d’Artagnan had provided and, afraid that d’Artagnan might kill his enemy, sought to reenter the fight.
D’Artagnan understood that Athos preferred to be left to handle Cahusac alone. In fact, within a few seconds Cahusac fell with a wound across his throat. At the same moment, Aramis placed his sword against his remaining enemy’s breast and made him call for mercy.
That left only Porthos and Biscarat. Porthos pelted him with a thousand taunts, asking Biscarat what time it could be, offering his compliments on Biscarat’s brother having just obtained a command in the Regiment of Navarre, and so on—but however he joked, it gained him nothing. Biscarat was one of those iron men with no fear of death.
However, it had to be brought to an end. The Watch might arrive and arrest all the combatants, wounded or not, Royalists or Cardinalists. Athos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan surrounded Bis-carat and demanded that he surrender. Though standing alone, and with a sword wound through his thigh, Biscarat was inclined to fight on—but Jussac, who’d risen on his elbow, called for him to yield. However, Biscarat turned a deaf ear—he was a Gascon, like d’Artagnan—and just laughed. Between parries, he found a moment to point with his sword at a spot on the ground. “Here,” he said, paraphrasing a Bible verse, “here dies Biscarat, last of those who were with him!”
“But there are four against you!” called Jussac. “I order you to yield!”
“Ah! If you order it, that’s different,” said Biscarat. “As you’re my officer, it’s my duty to obey.” He jumped backward, broke his sword across his knee, and threw the pieces over the convent wall. Then he crossed his arms, whistling a Cardinalist song.
Courage is always respected, even in an enemy. The musketeers saluted Biscarat with their swords, then returned them to their scabbards. D’Artagnan did likewise; then, aided by Biscarat, the only guard still standing, he carried Jussac, Cahusac, and Aramis’s wounded opponent under the awning of the convent. The other guard was dead.
D’Artagnan and the musketeers gleefully rang the convent bell, and then, carrying four swords out of five, drunk with joy, they set out toward the hôtel of Monsieur de Tréville. They walked arm in arm, taking up the whole width of the street, and hailing every musketeer they met until it became a triumphal march. D’Artagnan’s heart swelled as he marched between Athos and Porthos, gripping them tenderly.
“If I’m not yet a musketeer,” he said to his new friends, as they entered the gate of the Hôtel de Tréville, “at least now I’m an apprentice, aren’t I?”
VI
His Majesty King Louis XIII
The affair of the mêlée at the Carmelite convent made a great noise. Monsieur de Tréville rebuked his musketeers in public and congratulated them in private. However, there was no time to lose in gaining the ear of the king, so Tréville hurried across the river to the Louvre.25 But he was too late: the king was engaged with the cardinal and Tréville was told he was too busy to receive him.
That evening, Tréville went to play cards with the king. The king, always fond of money, was winning, which put him in an excellent humor. Seeing Tréville from far off, he said, “Come here, Monsieur le Capitaine, so I can scold you. Are you aware that His Eminence has been complaining to me about your musketeers, and so emotionally that it’s made him ill? These musketeers of yours are devils incarnate!”
“No, Sire,” replied Tréville, who saw right away how things stood. “No, on the contrary, they’re good fellows, meek as lambs, whose only desire is that their swords never leave their scabbards except in the service of Your Majesty. But what would you have? The guards of Monsieur le Cardinal are forever picking fights with them. For the honor of the corps, the poor young men are obliged to defend themselves.”
“Listen to Monsieur de Tréville!” said the king. “Hear him! You’d think he was speaking of a society of monks! In truth, my dear Captain, I’m inclined to relieve you of your commission and give it to Mademoiselle de Chemerault, and give you the abbey I promised her. Do you think I’m going to take your word for everything? I’m called Louis the Just, Monsieur de Tréville, and we shall see, by and by, what we shall see.”
“And because I have perfect faith in that justice, Sire, I shall wait, patiently and quietly, on Your Majesty’s good pleasure.”
“Wait then, Monsieur—wait,” said the king. “I won’t keep you waiting long.”
In fact, the king’s luck soon changed. As his winnings began to dwindle, he wasn’t sorry to find a reason “to make Charlemagne”26 (as the old expression has it) and quit while he was ahead. He stood up from the table and poured the money in front of him into his pockets, most of which was still winnings. “Take my place, La Vieuville,”27 he said. “I must speak with Monsieur de Tréville on an affair of some importance. Let’s see, I had eighty pistoles before me; put down the same sum, so the losers will have nothing to complain of. Justice before all!”
He turned toward Tréville and beckoned him into the embrasure of a nearby window. “Well, Monsieur, you say it’s His Eminence’s guards who sought to quarrel with the musketeers?” the king asked.
“Yes, Sire, as always.”
“And how did this thing come to happen? Tell me, my dear Captain. A good judge always listens to both sides.”
“How did it happen? Good God! In the most simple and natural way possible. Three of my best soldiers, whom Your Majesty knows by name, whose devotion you’ve appreciated more than once— three of my best soldiers, I say, Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, had planned an outing with a young Gascon cadet whom I’d introduced to them that morning. The party was to take place in Saint-Germain,28 I believe. They’d just met up at the Carmelite convent when they were accosted by Messieurs de Jussac, Cahusac, Biscarat, and a couple of other guards, who certainly didn’t go there in such numbers without intending to violate the edicts.”
“Ah! I tend to agree with you,” said the king. “Doubtless they went to fight there themselves.”
“I make no such accusation, Sire; but I’ll leave it to Your Majesty to judge what might bring five armed men to an area as deserted as the neighborhood of the Carmelite convent.”
“Yes, you’re right, Tréville—you’re right!”
“Then, when they saw my musketeers, they changed plans. Their petty personal quarrels were nothing next to their hostility to our company—for Your Majesty must know that the musketeers, who are for the king and no one but the king, are the natural rivals of the guards, who are for Monsieur le Cardinal.”
“Yes, Tréville, I know,” said the king in a melancholy voice, “and I think it’s a shame to see two such factions in France, two heads to royalty. But all this will end, Tréville, all this will end. You say, then, that the guards sought a quarrel with the musketeers?”
“I say it’s probable that such a thing occurred, though I can’t swear to it, Sire. You know that judging the truth in such a matter is very difficult, unless one is endowed with the kind of instincts that have earned Louis XIII the name of the Just . . .”
“That’s so. But they weren’t alone, your musketeers—they had a youth with them?”
“Yes, Sire, and Athos was already wounded. So three King’s Musketeers, one of them wounded, plus a youth, not only held their ground against five of the finest bl
ades in the Cardinal’s Guards, they even brought four of them down.”
“But, Tréville, this is a victory!” cried the king, radiant. “A complete victory!”
“Yes, Sire, as complete as that of Ponts-de-Cé.”29
“Four men, one of them wounded, and one a youth, you say?”
“Barely a man. Nevertheless, he conducted himself so well, I’ll take the liberty of recommending him to Your Majesty.”
“His name?”
“D’Artagnan, Sire. He’s the son of one of my oldest friends, a man who served the king your father, of glorious memory, in the civil wars.”
“And you say he conducted himself well, this young man? Tell me about it, Tréville; you know how I love stories of war and combat.” King Louis XIII twirled his mustache delightedly and placed his hand on his hip.
“Sire,” continued Tréville, “As I said, Monsieur d’Artagnan is almost a boy, and as he hasn’t the honor to be a musketeer, he was in civilian clothes. The Cardinal’s Guards, seeing how young he was, and that he was no musketeer, invited him to retire before they attacked.”
“There, you see, Tréville,” interrupted the king, “it was the guards who attacked.”
“Quite so, Sire, beyond all doubt. They called upon him to retire, as I said, but he replied that he was a musketeer at heart, devoted to Your Majesty, and would therefore remain with Messieurs les Mousquetaires.”
“Brave young man!” murmured the king.
“In fact, he stayed with them so effectively, it was he who gave Jussac the terrible sword wound that’s made Monsieur le Cardinal so angry.”
“He’s the one who wounded Jussac?” cried the king. “A mere boy! Tréville, that’s impossible.”
“It’s just as I have the honor to tell Your Majesty.”
“Jussac, one of the first blades of the realm!”
“Well, Sire, it seems he’s found his master.”
“I’d like to see this young man, Tréville—I’d like to see him, and if anything can be done for him, well, we’ll make it our business.”
“When would Your Majesty deign to receive him?”
“Tomorrow at noon, Tréville.”
“Shall I bring only him?”
“No, bring me all four together. I’d like to thank them all at once. Such devoted men are rare, Tréville, and we must reward their devotion.”
“At noon, Sire, we’ll be at the Louvre.”
“Ah . . . come in the back way, by the Petit Escalier, Tréville. There’s no point in letting the cardinal know about this.”
“As you say, Sire.”
“You understand, Tréville, an edict is still an edict. Dueling, on any account, is forbidden.”
“But this encounter, Sire, was nothing like a duel. It was a brawl; what else can you call five Cardinal’s Guards against three musketeers and Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“Quite so,” said the King, “but nonetheless, Tréville, come by the Petit Escalier.”
Tréville smiled, but it was already something of an accomplishment to have persuaded this child to rebel against his master, so he bowed respectfully to the king and was given permission to retire.
That evening the three musketeers were informed they were to have the honor of a royal audience. They’d been acquainted with the king for some time so this was no novelty for them; but d’Artagnan, with his active Gascon imagination, imagined his fortune was made, and passed the night in golden dreams. By eight o’clock the next morning he was already knocking on Athos’s door.
D’Artagnan found the musketeer dressed and ready to go out. As the audience with the king wasn’t until noon, he’d arranged to play tennis30 with Porthos and Aramis at the courts near the stables of the Luxembourg. Athos invited d’Artagnan to join them. Despite his ignorance of the game, which he’d never played, he accepted, not knowing what else to do with his time from nine in the morning until nearly noon.
The two other musketeers were already at the courts, knocking the balls about. Athos, who excelled at all sports, led d’Artagnan onto the court and challenged them. However, though he tried to play left-handed, with the first swing he discovered his wound was still too recent to allow such strenuous exercise. D’Artagnan kept at it, but he was too much of a novice to play a regular game, so they only volleyed balls back and forth without keeping score.
One of these balls, served from Porthos’s herculean wrist, passed so close to d’Artagnan’s face that he thought, if he’d been struck by it, it probably would have cost him his royal audience. He couldn’t possibly be presented to the king with a swollen face, and in the Gascon’s imagination his entire future depended on this audience. So he saluted Porthos and Aramis politely and bowed out of further play, offering to resume the game when he could meet them on more equal terms. He left the court and found a place in the gallery overlooking the net.
Unfortunately for d’Artagnan, one of His Eminence’s guards was among the spectators. Still seething about the defeat of his comrades the day before, he’d sworn to seize the first opportunity for revenge, and he believed that now his chance had come. “It’s no surprise that young man should be afraid of a mere ball,” he said loudly to his neighbor. “He’s probably an apprentice musketeer.”
D’Artagnan spun around as if bitten by a snake and glared at the guard who’d made this insolent speech. “By God,” continued the latter, with a mocking twist of his mustache, “look at me all you like, my little gentleman, but I’ve said what I’ve said.”
“And since what you’ve said is so clear that it needs no explanation,” replied d’Artagnan, in a quiet voice, “I request you to follow me.”
“And when would you like me to do that?” asked the guard, with the same mocking air.
“Immediately, if you please.”
“No doubt you know who I am.”
“Me? I have no idea, and couldn’t care less.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. If you knew my name, you might not be in such a hurry.”
“All right, then, what is your name?”
“Bernajoux—at your service!”
“Very well, Monsieur Bernajoux,”31 said d’Artagnan quietly, “I’ll await you at the door.”
“Go on, Monsieur, I’ll follow you.”
“Not too quickly, Monsieur, or someone will notice that we’re leaving together. You understand that for the business at hand, witnesses would be inconvenient.”
“Fine,” said the guard, still surprised that his name had had so little effect on the young man. Everyone knew the name of Bernajoux —except, perhaps, d’Artagnan—for it figured prominently in the daily accounts of those fights that not even the edicts of the king and the cardinal could control.
Porthos and Aramis were involved in their game, and Athos was watching them intently, so none of them saw their young comrade leave. He waited outside the door and less than a minute later the guard came down. D’Artagnan’s audience with the king was fixed for noon, so he had no time to lose. He looked around and, seeing the street deserted, said to his adversary, “My faith! It’s lucky you have to deal with only an apprentice musketeer, even if your name is Bernajoux. But don’t worry, I’ll do my best. En garde!”
“But it seems to me this is not exactly the best place for a meeting,” d’Artagnan’s opponent said. “Hadn’t we better go behind the Saint-Germain Abbey, or out to the Pré-aux-Clercs?”
“What you say makes sense,” replied d’Artagnan, “but unfortunately my time is short, as I have an appointment at noon. So if you please, Monsieur, en garde!”
Bernajoux was not the sort to receive such a compliment more than once. In an instant his sword shone in his hand and he charged his adversary, whom he hoped was young enough to be intimidated.
But the day before d’Artagnan had gone through his apprenticeship. Emboldened by his victory, inflated by high hopes for his future, he was determined not to retreat a single step. Their swords crossed close to the guards and d’Artagnan stood fi
rm, so it was his adversary who stepped back. But during the split-second in which Bernajoux’s blade deviated from the line, d’Artagnan disengaged, lunged, and pierced his opponent in the shoulder. He then stepped back and lowered his sword, but Bernajoux, crying out that it was nothing, rushed blindly at him, and impaled himself on d’Artagnan’s blade. He didn’t fall, but staggered back, shouting he was not yet defeated. But he broke off and stumbled across the street to the hôtel of the Duc de La Trémouille, where a relative of his was in service.
D’Artagnan, who had no idea how serious Bernajoux’s second wound was, followed close on his heels. He would doubtless have struck him a third time, but two of the guard’s friends had witnessed the exchange of words between d’Artagnan and Bernajoux, seen the pair go out, and then heard the commotion in the street. They now rushed out of the tennis courts, swords drawn, and attacked d’Artagnan. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis appeared next, and lit into the two guards attacking their young comrade, forcing them back. Bernajoux finally fell, leaving the Cardinal’s Guards only two against four, so they shouted, “To us! You there, in the Hôtel de La Trémouille!” At these cries, all the armed men in the hôtel came out and rushed the four companions, who themselves shouted, “Musketeers! To us!”
This call generally brought reinforcements, for everyone knew the musketeers were His Eminence’s enemies, and people loved them for their hostility to the cardinal. In a brawl, the guards of those companies not belonging to the Red Duke, as Aramis had called him, usually took sides with the King’s Musketeers. Three guards of Monsieur des Essarts’s company were passing; two went to the aid of the four companions, while the third ran to the hôtel of Monsieur de Tréville, crying, “To us, musketeers, to us!”
As usual, the Hôtel de Tréville was full of his company’s soldiers, and they rushed to the aid of their comrades. The mêlée became general, but the musketeers had the advantage of numbers. The Cardinal’s Guards and Monsieur de La Trémouille’s men retreated into their hôtel, slamming the gates shut just in time to prevent their enemies from following them. Bernajoux was in bad condition and was taken inside immediately.