The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  At the thought, the youth could not help roaring with laughter, but he looked very carefully about him to make sure lest his solitary laughter, unaccountable to any passer-by, be considered offensive.

  “Funny it was, surely, but that doesn’t make me any less of a driveling idiot. People simply don’t go charging into others without warning and they don’t dive under their cloaks to search for what isn’t there. Porthos would certainly have excused me if I hadn’t alluded to his cursed baldric. To be sure I didn’t refer to it specifically; I employed subtle insinuation and hilarious innuendo. Ah, cursed Gascon that I am, I would crack a joke as I fried on the griddles of hell!”

  His mirth spent, he continued to talk to himself with all the amenity he believed to be his due:

  “Look here, D’Artagnan my friend, if you escape (which seems to me highly improbable) you must learn to be perfectly polite in the future. You must henceforth be admired and cited as a model of urbanity. To be mannerly and obliging does not make a man a coward. Look at Aramis, he is amiability and grace personified. Well, has anyone ever dreamed of calling him a coward? Certainly not, and I vow that from now on I shall take him as a model in everything. Ah, here he is!”

  Walking forward and soliloquizing, D’Artagnan had arrived a few steps from the Hôtel d’Aiguillon and found Aramis by the main gate chatting gaily with three gentlemen of the Royal Guards. Aramis, for his part, perceived D’Artagnan too. But remembering that the youth had witnessed the angry scene with Monsieur de Tréville that morning, he felt loath to welcome one who had observed the Captain rebuking his musketeers. So he pretended not to see him. D’Artagnan, on the contrary, was still full of his plans of conciliation and courtesy, so with a deep bow and a most gracious smile, he approached the quartet. Aramis bowed his head slightly but did not smile. The four soldiers immediately broke off their conversation.

  D’Artagnan at once perceived that he was intruding upon them, but he was not familiar enough with the manners of the fashionable world to know how to extricate himself gallantly from a false position. Here he was, mingling with people he scarcely knew and interrupting a conversation that did not concern him. He was racking his brains to find the least awkward means of retreat when he noticed that Aramis had dropped his handkerchief and, doubtless by mistake, had placed his foot over it. Here, thought D’Artagnan, was a favorable opportunity to make up for his tactlessness. With the most polished air he could summon, he stooped and drew the handkerchief from under the musketeer’s foot, despite the efforts Aramis made to keep it hidden. Holding it out to Aramis, he said:

  “Here, Monsieur, is a handkerchief I believe you should be sorry to lose.”

  Indeed, the handkerchief was richly embroidered and one of the corners bore a coronet and crest. Aramis, blushing excessively, snatched it from the Gascon’s hand.

  “Ah, ah, my most discreet friend,” one of the guards said to Aramis, “will you persist in saying that you are not on good terms with Madame de Bois-Tracy when that charming lady is kind enough to lend you one of her handkerchiefs?”

  The glance Aramis shot at D’Artagnan was a declaration of mortal enmity. Then, resuming his usual suave air:

  “You are in error, gentlemen,” he answered. “This handkerchief does not belong to me. I cannot imagine what maggot inspired Monsieur to hand it to me rather than to one of you. As proof of what I say, here is mine in my pocket.”

  Whereupon he produced his own handkerchief which was very elegant too and of fine cambric though that material was expensive at the period. But it lacked both embroidery and a crest. As he held it up, they could all see it was ornamented with a single cipher, its owner’s.

  This time D’Artagnan was not so hasty. He perceived his mistake. But the others refused to be convinced by the musketeer’s denial. One of them addressed the musketeer with affected seriousness:

  “If matters were as you pretend, my dear Aramis, I should be forced to ask you to hand over that handkerchief. Bois-Tracy is an intimate friend of mine and I will not allow his wife’s property to be sported as a trophy.”

  “Your demand is ill-couched,” Aramis retorted. “While I recognize the justice of your claim, I refuse it on account of the form.”

  “The fact is,” D’Artagnan hazarded timidly, “I did not see the handkerchief fall from the pocket of Monsieur Aramis. He had his foot on it, that is all. Seeing his foot on it, I thought it was his.”

  “And you were completely mistaken, Monsieur,” Aramis replied coldly, indifferent to D’Artagnan’s efforts at reparation. Then, turning to the gentleman who had declared himself the friend of Bois-Tracy:

  “As for you, Monsieur-the-Friend-of-Bois-Tracy, it occurs to me that I am on quite as intimate terms with him as you are. Thus this handkerchief might have fallen just as easily out of your pocket as out of mine.”

  “No, no! On my honor as a gentleman—”

  “You are about to swear on your honor and I on my word, which will make it evident that one of us is lying. Look here, Montaran, we can do better than that. Let us each take one half.”

  “One half of the handkerchief?”

  “Certainly!”

  The other two guardsmen were enchanted:

  “Quite right … perfectly fair … the judgment of Solomon … Aramis, you are certainly exceeding wise!…”

  As they all burst out laughing, the affair, as may be supposed, had no untoward sequel. After a moment or two, the conversation ceased, the three guardsmen and the musketeer shook hands cordially and went off in opposite directions. D’Artagnan, meanwhile, stood sheepishly to one side.

  “Now is my chance to make my peace with this gallant gentleman,” D’Artagnan thought, and, agog with good intent, he hurried after Aramis, who had moved off without paying any attention to him.

  “Monsieur, you will excuse me, I hope.”

  “Monsieur, allow me to observe that your behavior in this circumstance was not that of a gentleman.”

  “What, Monsieur! Do you suppose—?”

  “I suppose you are not a fool, Monsieur. I also suppose that, though you come from Gascony, you must know that people do not step upon handkerchiefs without a reason. What the devil! The streets of Paris are not paved with cambric.”

  “Monsieur, you are wrong in trying to humiliate me,” D’Artagnan replied, his natural aggressive spirit gaining the upper hand over his pacific resolutions. “I am from Gascony it is true; since you know this, I need not tell you that Gascons are anything but patient. When a Gascon has begged to be excused once, even for a foolish act, he is convinced that he has already done once again as much as he should have.”

  “Monsieur, what I said was not said in order to pick a quarrel with you. I am no bravo, thank God! I am but a temporary musketeer; as much, I fight only when I am forced to and always with the greatest repugnance. But this time the affair is serious because you have compromised a lady.”

  “Because we have compromised a lady, you mean.”

  “Why were you so tactless as to give me back the handkerchief?”

  “Why were you so clumsy as to drop it?”

  “I said and I repeat, Monsieur, that the handkerchief was never in my pocket.”

  “Well, Monsieur, you have lied twice, for I saw it fall.”

  “Ha! so that’s the tone you assume, Monsieur the Gascon. Well, I shall have to teach you how to behave yourself.”

  “And I shall send you back to Mass, Monsieur l’Abbé, to a Mass said over your corpse. Draw, if you please, and instantly—”

  “No, no, if you please, my fair friend, at least not here. Can’t you see that we are opposite the Hôtel d’Aiguillon which is filled with a rabble of Monseigneur Cardinal’s servants? How do I know that His Eminence has not deputed you to procure him my head? To tell you the truth, I am ridiculously attached to this head of mine; it seems to fit so symmetrically upon my shoulders. Of course I intend to kill you, don’t worry on that score. But in a cosy, remote place where we will not be interr
upted lest you be inclined to boast about your death in public.”

  “I agree, Monsieur, but do not be too confident. And bring along your handkerchief; whether it belongs to you or to somebody else, you will probably need it.”

  “Monsieur is a Gascon?”

  “Yes, this monsieur is a Gascon and he never postpones a duel through prudence.”

  “Prudence, Monsieur, is a somewhat useless virtue for musketeers, I know. But it is indispensable to churchmen. Therefore as I am only a musketeer pro. tem., I intend to remain prudent. At two o’clock I shall have the honor of waiting for you at the Hôtel de Tréville. There, I shall apprise you of the best place and time we can meet.”

  The two young men bowed and parted. Aramis went up the street which led to the Luxembourg. D’Artagnan, having suddenly noticed the time, set out toward the Carmes-Deschaux.

  “Decidedly, I shall not return,” he mused. “But at least if I am killed, I shall be killed by a musketeer.”

  V

  HIS MAJESTY’S MUSKETEERS AND THE CARDINAL’S GUARDS

  D’Artagnan did not know a soul in Paris. He therefore went to his appointment with Athos without a second to support him, let alone two, content with those whom his adversary would have chosen for himself. Besides, he fully intended to offer the brave musketeer all suitable apologies—without weakness or servility of course—for he feared the usual outcome of an affair of this sort, when a young, vigorous man fights against one who is weak from his wounds. If conquered, he doubles the value of his adversary’s triumph; if victorious, he is accused of having taken an unfair advantage of a handicap.

  Now unless we have painted the character of our seeker after adventures unsatisfactorily our readers must already have noted that D’Artagnan was no ordinary man. Therefore while he kept repeating to himself that his death was inevitable, he was not going tamely and submissively to death as a man less courageous might have done in his place. Thinking over the different characters of the men he was about to fight against, he gained a clearer view of the situation. By offering sincere apology, he hoped to make a friend of Athos, whose lordly air and austere bearing he admired immensely. Unless he were killed outright, he flattered himself that he could frighten Porthos with the adventure of the baldric, an anecdote which, cleverly presented, could be told to everybody with the certainty of covering its master with ridicule. As for the astute Aramis, D’Artagnan was not seriously afraid of him:

  “If I manage to last until I get to him, I shall dispatch him blithely,” he murmured. “At any rate, I shall aim at his face, which was Caesar’s advice to his soldiers before they joined battle with Pompey’s. At worst, I shall at least have damaged that handsome mien he is so proud of.”

  Further, D’Artagnan was armed with that invincible stock of determination his father had communicated to him. He remembered the old hero’s exact words: “Endure nothing from anyone save Monseigneur Cardinal and the King.” Sped by this counsel, he flew rather than walked toward the monastery of the Carmes Déchaussés or Barefoot Carmelite Friars, which, in those days, was known as the Carmes Deschaux. It was a building innocent of windows and surrounded by barren fields, less frequented than the Pré-aux-Clercs as a dueling ground and usually chosen by men who had no time to lose.

  When D’Artagnan arrived in sight of the bare space extending along the foot of the monastery wall, Athos had been waiting only five minutes. Twelve o’clock was striking. D’Artagnan was therefore as punctual as the Woman of Samaria and as the most rigorously casuistic of duelists might wish.

  Though Monsieur de Tréville’s physician had dressed the musketeer’s wounds afresh, he was still suffering. D’Artagnan found him seated on a stone, waiting with that placidity and dignity which never forsook him. Seeing D’Artagnan draw near, Athos rose and came courteously to meet him; D’Artagnan, for his part, took off his hat and bowed so deeply that its feathers swept the ground.

  “Monsieur, I have engaged two of my friends as seconds, but they have not arrived yet. I am surprised at the delay; it is not at all their custom.”

  “Monsieur,” D’Artagnan answered, “I have no seconds. I arrived in Paris just yesterday. The only person I know in the city is Monsieur de Tréville. I was recommended to him by my father who has the honor of being a tolerably close friend of his.”

  After a moment’s reflection, Athos asked:

  “Monsieur de Tréville is the only person you know?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Look here, look here!” Athos grumbled. He was addressing D’Artagnan yet half of what he said was for his own benefit. “If I kill you, I shall be taken for a child-slaying ogre. Everybody will swear that I robbed the cradle!”

  “No one will say our fight was too one-sided,” D’Artagnan protested with a bow not devoid of dignity. “After all, you are doing me the honor of crossing swords with me although your wounds must be giving you considerable trouble.”

  “Ay, it is all very troublesome, I must confess. And you hurt me devilishly when you charged into me. But I shall fence with my left hand; I usually do so in such circumstances. Please do not think I am doing you a favor, I am either-handed. In fact, you will be at a disadvantage; lefthanders can be pretty irksome for those who are not used to them.”

  “Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan bowing again, “I assure you I am immensely grateful to you for your perfect courtesy.”

  “You are too kind,” Athos replied, ever the gentleman. “Let us speak of something else, if you please.” Then, as a twinge of pain seized him: “Sangbleu!” he cried. “You certainly hurt me. My shoulder is on fire!”

  “If you would permit me—” D’Artagnan ventured timidly.

  “What, Monsieur?”

  “I have a miraculous balm for wounds. My mother gave it to me. I have had occasion to try it on myself.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, I am certain that in less than three days this balm would cure you, Monsieur. After three days, when you are cured, I would still deem it a great honor to cross swords with you.”

  D’Artagnan spoke with a simplicity that did honor to his courtesy without casting the least doubt upon his courage.

  “God’s truth, Monsieur, there’s a proposition I cannot but admire. Not that I accept it, but none save a gentleman born could have made it. That is how the paladins spoke in the days of Charlemagne, and were they not the very paradigm of chivalry? Unfortunately we do not live in the days of the great Emperor; we live under the rule of a Cardinal. However carefully we might try to guard our secret, people would learn we were about to fight and we would be prevented from doing so.” He frowned as he looked at the horizon. “Confound it, will these fellows never come?”

  “If you are in a hurry, Monsieur,” D’Artagnan suggested in the same polite tone he had used before, “we might set to without your seconds. Do not stand upon ceremony; you may dispatch me as soon as you care to.”

  “I like you for those words,” said Athos, nodding graciously. “They came from an intelligent mind and a generous heart. Monsieur, I prize men of your mettle. I see plainly that if we do not kill each other, I shall hereafter have much pleasure conversing with you. But let us wait for my friends, if you please; I have plenty of time and it would be more seemly.” He had barely finished speaking when, looking up: “Here comes one of them!” he cried, as, to his surprise, D’Artagnan discerned the gigantic bulk of Porthos at the far end of the Rue de Vaugirard.

  “What! Is Monsieur Porthos one of your seconds?”

  “Certainly. Does that disturb you?”

  “No, by no means.”

  “And here comes the second one!”

  As D’Artagnan turned to follow the direction in which Athos was pointing, he perceived Aramis.

  “What?” he cried, even more astonished than before, “Monsieur Aramis is your other second?”

  “Of course. Don’t you know that none of us is ever seen without the others? Musketeers and Guards, the Court and the city know us a
s the Three Inseparables. Of course, as you come from Dax or Pau—”

  “From Tarbes—”

  “From Tarbes, then, you are probably unaware of this fact.”

  “By my troth, you are well-named, gentlemen, and my adventure, should it make a stir, will certainly prove that your union is not founded upon contrasts.”

  Meanwhile Porthos came up, waved his hand to Athos, then, noticing D’Artagnan, stopped short, gaping with surprise. Incidentally he had changed his baldric and left off his cloak.

  “Well, bless me! what does this mean?” he asked.

  “This is the gentleman I am to fight with,” Athos explained, pointing to D’Artagnan, then opening his palm in a gesture of salutation.

  “But I am going to fight with him too!”

  “Not before one o’clock, Monsieur,” D’Artagnan reminded him.

  “And I too am to fight with this gentleman,” Aramis announced, joining the group.

  “Not until two o’clock,” D’Artagnan replied as casually as before.

  Aramis turned to Athos:

  “By the way, Athos, what are you fighting about?”

  “By my faith, I’m none too sure. As a matter of fact, he hurt my shoulder. What about you, Porthos?”

  “I’m fighting—” Porthos blushed a deep crimson. “I’m fighting because I’m fighting!”

  Athos, whose keen eye lost no detail of the scene, observed a faint sly smile steal over the young Gascon’s lips as he specified:

  “We had a slight disagreement about dress.”

  “And you, Aramis?”

  “Oh, ours is a theological quarrel.” Aramis made a sign to D’Artagnan begging him to keep the cause of their difference a secret. Athos saw a second smile flit across D’Artagnan’s lips.

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes,” D’Artagnan agreed. “A passage in Saint Augustine upon which we could not concur.”

  “A clever fellow, this Gascon, no doubt about it,” Athos murmured under his breath.