Since writers of serials wrote for a weekly deadline, there was no such thing as regret or revision, and the reader may see rather more of the novel’s scaffolding than the author would like. Dumas, characteristically, solved this problem with talent, and produced the best writing in The Three Musketeers in the latter third of the novel, for example the combination of battle and picnic at the Bastion Saint Gervais, during the attack on the Protestant stronghold at La Rochelle. This is easily one of the most insouciant scenes in all of literature, as the musketeers, intent on winning a tavern bet, occupy the bastion; sip wine; discuss matters of love and strategy; push a wall over on a raiding party; use the dead as mock defenders; and, finally, after four-hundred pages of action and intrigue, actually fire muskets!
This is but one pleasure among many. There is, throughout The Three Musketeers, a vast and magnanimous intelligence at work. The critic Jules Michelet described Alexandre Dumas as “an inextinguishable volcano,” and “one of the forces of nature.” He was certainly that. Born to write, and born to write about mythic times and mythic deeds, Dumas loved his characters and the elaborate story he fashioned for them. This is a telling trait in a novelist, the reader instinctively feels it, so gives himself to the story, lives in the time and place of its setting, and escapes, as surely as d’Artagnan ever escaped, from the drone of daily existence. That’s the job of romantic fiction and it’s done in The Three Musketeers on virtually every page. “All for one, and one for all!” And all for us.
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
Wherein It Is Proved
That Despite Their Names Ending in -os and -is,
the Heroes of the History We Are About to
Have the Honor to Relate
Have Nothing Mythological About Them
About a year ago, while I was engaged in research in the Royal Library for my History of Louis XIV, I chanced upon a volume called The Memoirs of Monsieur d’Artagnan. Like most works in a period in which authors could not tell the truth without risking a more or less lengthy sojourn in the Bastille, it was printed at Amsterdam. The publisher was one Pierre Rouge. The title fascinated me; I took the book home (with the permission of the Librarian of course) and I devoured its pages.
I do not intend to give a minute account of this curious work here; I merely indicate it to those of my readers who enjoy pictures of a given period. In it they will find a gallery of portraits penciled by a master; and, though most of these sketches may be traced on barracks doors or on the walls of taverns, yet they present the figures of Louis XIII, of Ann of Austria, of Richelieu, of Mazarin and of most of the courtiers of the period quite as vividly and faithfully as Monsieur Anquetil does in his History of France.
Now as everybody knows, what strikes the capricious mind of the poet does not always impress the mass of readers. So while I admired, as others doubtless will admire, the details I have just cited, my main preoccupation concerned a matter to which no one had paid the slightest attention previously.
In his Memoirs, Monsieur d’Artagnan relates that, on his first visit to Monsieur de Tréville, Captain of His Majesty’s Musketeers, he met in the antechamber three young men belonging to the illustrious corps in which he was soliciting the honor of enrolling. Their names were Athos, Porthos and Aramis.
I must confess these three foreign names struck me. I immediately decided that they were pseudonyms under which D’Artagnan disguised names that were perhaps illustrious. Or else, perhaps, the bearers of these names had themselves chosen them on the day when, thanks to a whim, or discontent, or exiguity of fortune, they donned the uniform of a ranker in the Musketeers.
From then on I knew no rest until I could find some trace in contemporaneous works of these three names which had aroused my passionate curiosity.
The mere catalogue of the books I read with this object in view would fill a whole chapter, which might prove highly instructive to my readers but would certainly not amuse them. Suffice to say that, just as, discouraged at so much fruitless investigation, I was about to abandon my quest, I at last found what I was after. Guided by the counsels of my illustrious and erudite friend Paulin Paris, I consulted a manuscript in folio—Number 4772 or 4773, I forget which, in the catalogue of the Royal Library—entitled Memoirs of Monsieur le Comte de la Fère, Concerning Some Events in France towards the End of the Reign of Louis XIII and the Beginning of the Reign of Louis XIV.
The reader may imagine my immense joy when in this manuscript, my last hope, I came upon the name of Athos on page 20, of Porthos on page 27, and of Aramis on page 31.
The discovery of a completely unknown manuscript, at a period in which the science of history has progressed to such an extraordinary degree, seemed to me to be almost miraculous. I therefore hastened to ask for permission to print it in order to present my candidacy to the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres on the strength of another’s work in case I could not enter the Académie Française on the strength of my own—which is exceedingly probable! I must add that this permission was graciously granted. I do so in order publicly to refute the slanderers who maintain that we live under a government scarcely favorable to men of letters.
It is the first part of this precious manuscript which I now offer to my readers, restoring the fitting title that belongs to it.
Should this first part meet with the success it deserves (of which I have no doubt) I hereby undertake to publish the second part immediately.
In the meantime, since godfathers are second fathers, as it were, I beg the reader to hold myself and not the Comte de la Fère responsible for such pleasure or boredom as he may experience.
This being understood, let us proceed with our story.
THE THREE
MUSKETEERS
I
THE THREE GIFTS OF MONSIEUR D’ARTAGNAN THE ELDER
Meung, a pretty market town on the Loire and the birthplace of Jean de Meung, author of the Romance of the Rose, was more or less used to disturbances of one sort or another because of the troublous times. But on the first Monday in April, 1625, it appeared as though all the armed hosts of the Huguenots had descended upon the place in order to make of it a second La Rochelle. The citizens, seeing the women fleeing over by the main street and hearing the abandoned children crying from the doorsteps, hurriedly donned their breastplates. Then, bolstering up their somewhat uncertain courage by seizing musket, axe or pike, they sped toward the hostelry At the Sign of the Jolly Miller. There they found a compact, ever-swelling group, all agog, milling about, full of curiosity and clamor.
Panics were frequent in France at that period; few days passed without some city or another recording an event of this sort in its archives. There were the nobles fighting among themselves, the King making war upon the Cardinal, and Spain battling against the King. Besides these conflicts, concealed or public, secret or patent, other riots were occasioned by brigands, beggars, Huguenots, wolves and knaves who attacked all comers. The citizenry always took up arms against brigands and wolves and knaves, often against the nobles and Huguenots, sometimes against the King, but never against the Cardinal or Spain.
Accordingly, custom being what it was, on the first Monday in April 1625, the burghers of Meung, hearing the tumult and seeing neither the red-and-yellow standard of Spain nor the livery of the Cardinal Duc de Richelieu, rushed toward The Sign of the Jolly Miller. One glance was enough to make clear to everybody what was causing all this hullabaloo.
A young man—but let us sketch his portrait with one bold stroke of the pen! Imagine, then, a Don Quixote aged eighteen … a Don Quixote lacking breastplate, coat-of-mail or thighguards … a Don Quixote clad in a woolen doublet, its blue faded into an indefinable color that combined a multitude of tints as dissimilar as the red of deepest Burgundy and the most celestial azure.… His face was long, thin and tanned, the cheekbones high (a sign of astuteness) and the jaw wide (the infallible mark of a Gascon, whether he wears a beret or no). As a matter of fact, the youth wore a beret, adorned with a fea
ther of sorts. His glance was frank and intelligent, his nose hooked but finely chiseled. Too tall for an adolescent, too short for an adult, he looked like nothing so much as a farmer’s son on a journey, were it not for the sword dangling from a belt of shagreen, which kept hitting against the calves of its owner when he walked, and against the bristling flank of his steed when he rode.
Our youth boasted a steed so noteworthy that no man could fail to take note of it. A Béarn nag, it was, twelve or fourteen years old, with a yellow coat and hairless tail, but not without swellings on its legs. As this nag walked with its head well below its knees, no martingale was necessary. Nevertheless, it managed to cover eight leagues a day regularly. Unfortunately the virtues of this horse were so well concealed under its weird coat and incongruous gait that, at a period when everybody was a connoisseur in horseflesh, its apparition at Meung (it had entered a quarter of an hour before by the Gate of Beaugency) created a sensation. And the discredit inspired by the beast naturally extended to its master.
This fact proved all the more painful to young D’Artagnan—to name the Don Quixote of this second Rosinante—because he was himself forced to acknowledge how ridiculous such a steed made him, excellent horseman though he was. Indeed, he had heaved a deep sigh as he accepted this gift from his father. He was aware, of course, that such a beast was worth at least twenty livres. But the words accompanying the gift were beyond all price.
“My son,” said the old Gascon gentleman in that pure Béarn patois which Henry IV had never succeeded in shedding, “my son, this horse was born in your father’s house some thirteen years ago, and here it has remained ever since. This ought to make you love the beast! Never sell it; let it die quietly and honorably of old age. If you should go to the wars with it, then care for it as faithfully as you would care for an old servant. At Court, should you ever have the honor to go there,” Monsieur d’Artagnan the elder continued, adding parenthetically that it was an honor to which his son’s ancient nobility entitled him, “be sure worthily to uphold the name of ‘gentleman’ which has been dutifully borne by your ancestors for more than five hundred years. Do this both for your own sake and for the sake of your own people—I mean your relatives and friends. Endure nothing from anyone save the Cardinal and the King. Nowadays a gentleman makes his way by his courage—do you understand?—by his courage alone! Whoever trembles for but a second has perhaps lost the bait which fortune held out to him in precisely that second. You are young. You ought to be brave for two reasons: first because you are a Gascon and second because you are my son! Never avoid a quarrel: seek out the hazards of high adventure. I have taught you how to wield a sword; you have muscles of iron and a wrist of steel. Fight at every opportunity, the more blithely because duels are forbidden and therefore it will be doubly brave of you to fight.”
After a pause, D’Artagnan’s father went on:
“I have nothing to give you, my son, except fifteen crowns, my horse and the advice you have just heard. To these, your mother will add a recipe for a certain balsam which she acquired from a gipsy woman. It possesses the miraculous virtue of curing all wounds which do not reach the heart. Take advantage of everything that comes your way; live happily and long!”
Then:
“One word more,” the old man added. “I would wish to propose an example for you. Not mine, to be sure, for I have never appeared at Court; besides, I took part in the Religious Wars as a volunteer. No, I mean Monsieur de Tréville. He was formerly my neighbor; as a child, he had the honor of being a playmate of our King, Louis XIII, whom God preserve! Their games sometimes degenerated into battles in which the King did not always have the upper hand. The thumps and thwacks he received from Monsieur de Tréville inspired His Majesty with much esteem and friendship for his former playmate. Later, Monsieur de Tréville fought against others: on his first journey to Paris, five times … from the death of the late King to the majority of the young King, seven times, excluding all the wars and the sieges he has been through … from that date until now, I do not know how many times, possibly one hundred … thus despite all edicts, ordinances Musketeers—in other words, leader of a legion of Caesars highly esteemed by His Majesty and dreaded by the Cardinal, who is known to dread nothing! Better still, Monsieur de Tréville earns ten thousand crowns per annum, which makes him a very great noble indeed. And he started from scratch, just like you!
“Go to him with this letter. And model your behavior upon his, in order to accomplish what he has accomplished.”
Whereupon the old man buckled his own sword to his son’s belt, kissed him tenderly on both cheeks, and gave him his blessing.
Leaving his father, the young man went to his mother’s apartment where she awaited him with that sovereign remedy which, thanks to the advice we have reported, was subsequently to be employed so often. In this interview, the adieux were longer and more tender than in the other. It was not because Monsieur d’Artagnan failed to cherish his only son, but he was a man and he would have deemed it unworthy for a man to give way to his feelings; whereas Madame d’Artagnan was a woman, and more, a mother. So she wept copiously and, to the honor of Monsieur d’Artagnan the younger, notwithstanding the efforts he made to remain as firm as a future musketeer should be, nature prevailed, and he too shed many tears, half of which he managed at great pains to conceal.
That same day the youth set out on his journey equipped with his father’s three gifts, namely, the fifteen crowns, the horse and the letter to Monsieur de Tréville. As may well be imagined, the advice had been thrown into the bargain.
With such a vade mecum, D’Artagnan was, morally and physically, an exact replica of Cervantes’ hero, to whom we so aptly compared him when our duties as historian placed us under the necessity of sketching his portrait. The Spanish don took windmills for giants and sheep for armies; his Gascon counterpart took every smile for an insult and every glance for a challenge. Accordingly from Tardes in the Pyrénées all the way to Meung on the Loire, he kept his fist clenched or pressed his hand against the hilt of his sword ten times a day. Yet his fist did not crash down on any jaw nor did his sword issue from its scabbard. To be sure, the sight of the wretched nag excited many a smile as D’Artagnan rode by, but against the nag’s flank rattled a sword of respectable length and over the sword gleamed an eye more ferocious than proud. Passersby therefore repressed their hilarity or, if hilarity prevailed over prudence, they attempted to laugh on one side of their faces only, as do the masks of the ancients. Thus D’Artagnan remained majestic and virgin in his susceptibility until he reached the inauspicious town of Meung.
There, as he was alighting from his horse at the gate of The Jolly Miller, without anyone—host, waiter or ostler—coming to hold his stirrup, D’Artagnan spied, through an open window on the ground floor, a gentleman of fine figure and proud, though somewhat sullen mien. This person was talking to two others who appeared to be listening to him with great deference. D’Artagnan, fancying quite naturally, according to habit, that he was the object of their conversation, listened attentively. This time D’Artagnan was only in part mistaken; he himself was not being discussed, his nag was. Apparently the gentleman was treating his audience to an enumeration of all the nag’s qualities; and the audience being highly respectful of the narrator, there were bursts of raucous laughter at every moment. If the suggestion of a smile sufficed to stir the ire of our Gascon we may readily imagine how this vociferous jollity affected him.
However, D’Artagnan first wished to examine the insolent fellow who dared make mock of him. His haughty glance fell upon the stranger, a man of forty or forty-five years of age, pale of complexion, with piercing black eyes, a nose boldly fashioned and a black, impeccably trimmed mustache. He wore a doublet and hose of violet, with trimming of like color and no other ornament save the customary slashes through which the shirt appeared. Though new, his doublet and hose looked rumpled, like traveling clothes long packed in a portmanteau. D’Artagnan took in all these details with the
speed of the most meticulous observer and also, doubtless, with an instinctive presentiment that this stranger was to exercise a powerful influence upon his future life.
As D’Artagnan stared at the gentleman in violet, the latter was uttering the most sagacious and profound commentary on the nag of Béarn. His two auditors roared with laughter, at which the narrator actually smiled. This time, there could be no doubt whatsoever; D’Artagnan had been truly insulted. Convinced of it, he pulled his beret down over his eyes, and, attempting to copy certain courtly gestures he had picked up from noblemen traveling through Gascony, he stepped forward, his right hand on the hilt of his sword, his left against his hip. Unfortunately fast as he moved, waxing angrier at every step, he seemed to become more confused. Instead of the polite, lofty speech he had prepared as a challenge, his tongue could produce nothing better than a vulgar exclamation which he topped off with a furious gesture.
“Look here, Monsieur,” he cried. “Look here, you, there, skulking behind that shutter … yes, I mean you … Look here! tell me what you are laughing at, will you, and we can laugh together!”
The gentleman’s gaze moved slowly away from the nag and slowly toward its master, as though a certain lapse of time were requisite before he could understand how such extraordinary reproaches could be leveled at him. Then, when he could entertain no doubt on the matter, he frowned slightly. A moment later, in a tone of irony indescribable in its insolence, he replied:
“I am not aware that I was addressing you, Monsieur.”
“Never mind,” countered D’Artagnan, exasperated by this medley of insolence and good manners, of convention and disdain, “I was addressing you!”
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