“And now that we are all here, gentlemen,” D’Artagnan announced. “Allow me to offer you my apologies.”
At the word “apologies,” a cloud passed over the brow of Athos, a haughty smile curled the lips of Porthos, and a nod of refusal from Aramis proved more expressive than any words he might have said.
“One moment, gentlemen, you do not understand me.” D’Artagnan objected. As he tossed back his head, the sunlight fell upon it, emphasizing its bold, sharp lines. “I am apologizing only in case I cannot settle my score with all three of you. Monsieur Athos has the first right to kill me, a fact which lessens the value of your claim, Monsieur Porthos, and makes yours, Monsieur Aramis, practically worthless. So I repeat, gentlemen, pray excuse me—but on that score alone! Come, on guard!”
With these words, accompanied by the most gallant gesture, D’Artagnan drew his sword. The blood had rushed to his head; at that moment he would have tackled all the musketeers in the kingdom as cheerfully as he was about to try conclusions with Athos, Porthos and Aramis. It was high noon; the sun in its zenith beat mercilessly down upon the dueling ground.
“It is very hot,” Athos remarked, drawing his sword in his turn, “but I cannot take off my doublet. My wound has begun to bleed again and I would not wish to embarrass Monsieur by the sight of blood which he has not drawn from me himself.”
“True, Monsieur, and, whether drawn by myself or anyone else, I vow I will always view with regret the blood of so gallant a gentleman. I will therefore fight in my doublet, like yourself.”
“Come, come, enough of such compliments,” Porthos growled. “Remember we are awaiting our turn.”
“Speak for yourself, Porthos, when you utter such absurdities,” Aramis broke in. “I, for one, hold that everything they said was well spoken and worthy of gallant gentlemen.”
“When you please, Monsieur,” said Athos, putting himself on guard.
“I was awaiting your orders, Monsieur,” D’Artagnan replied, crossing swords. But the sound of the two blades clashing had barely died down when a company of the Cardinal’s guards, commanded by Monsieur de Jussac, turned the corner of the convent.
“The Cardinal’s Guards!” Porthos and Aramis cried. “Sheathe your swords, gentlemen … sheathe your swords.…”
But it was too late; the combatants had been seen in a position which left no doubt of their intentions.
“Ho, there!” Jussac called, advancing toward them and making a sign to his men to follow him. “Hallo, there, Musketeers! So you’re fighting here, are you? And the edicts against dueling, what about them?”
“You are very generous, gentlemen of the guards,” said Athos, full of rancor, for Jussac was one of those who had attacked him the day before. “If we saw you fighting, I can promise you we would not try to interfere. Leave us alone, then, and you can enjoy a little fun without any trouble to yourselves.”
“Gentlemen,” said Jussac, “I much regret to have to tell you that this is impossible. We have our duty to accomplish. Sheathe, then, if you please, and follow us.”
“Monsieur,” said Aramis, parodying Jussac, “we would be delighted to obey your kindly invitation if it depended only upon ourselves. But unfortunately this is impossible. Monsieur de Tréville has forbidden it. Be off on your way, then; it is the best thing to do.”
The raillery exasperated Jussac:
“If you disobey,” he warned, “we shall charge you.”
“There are five of them,” Athos said in a low voice, “and only three of us. We shall be beaten again and we shall die here and now, for I swear I will never again face our Captain a beaten man.”
Athos, Porthos and Aramis huddled together as Jussac marshaled his men. This short interval was enough to convince D’Artagnan. Here was one of those events that decide a man’s entire existence; D’Artagnan must choose between King and Cardinal and forever abide by his choice. To fight meant to disobey the law, to risk his head, to attract in one instant the enmity of a minister more powerful than the King himself. He perceived all this quite clearly, and, to his credit, did not hesitate a second. Turning to the musketeers:
“Gentlemen,” he said, “allow me to correct you, if you please. You said you were but three; it seems to me that there are four of us.”
“But you are not one of us,” Porthos demurred.
“True, I wear no musketeer’s uniform but I have the spirit of a musketeer. My heart is a musketeer’s; I feel it, Monsieur, and so I shall fight!”
“You may withdraw, young man,” Jussac shouted, guessing D’Artagnan’s intentions. “We will allow you to retire. Save your skin, lad; begone quickly.”
D’Artagnan did not budge.
“Upon my word, you’re a plucky fellow,” said Athos, pressing the young man’s hand.
“Come, come, make up your minds,” Jussac urged.
“Look here,” Porthos said to Aramis, “we must do something.”
“This is very magnanimous of you, Monsieur,” Athos told D’Artagnan, but the three musketeers, realizing how young he was, dreaded his inexperience. Athos summed up the situation: “We should still be but three, one of whom is wounded, plus a mere boy, yet everybody will say that there were four men fighting the guards.”
“Yes, but shall we surrender?” Porthos asked indignantly.
“That is difficult!” Aramis agreed.
D’Artagnan, understanding their irresolution, pressed his point:
“Try me, gentlemen, and I swear on my honor that I will not leave this field if we are vanquished.”
“What is your name, my brave fellow?” Athos inquired.
“D’Artagnan, Monsieur.”
“Well then,” cried Athos, “Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan, forward!”
“Come, along now, gentlemen, have you made up your minds to make up your minds?” Jussac asked for the third time.
“We have,” Athos replied.
“And what is your choice?”
“We are about to have the honor of charging you,” Aramis answered, raising his hat with one hand and drawing his sword with the other.
“So you’re offering resistance, are you?”
“God’s blood, are you surprised?”
At once the nine combatants rushed up to join battle furiously but not without method. Athos singled out a certain Cahusac, a favorite of the Cardinal’s, Porthos paired off with Bicarat, and Aramis was faced with two adversaries. As for D’Artagnan, he was pitted against Jussac himself.
The young Gascon’s heart beat as though it would burst, not with fear, thank God! for he welcomed danger, but with emulation. He fought like a furious tiger, turning dozens of times around his opponent and continuously changing his ground and his guard. Jussac, to quote a phrase then in fashion, was an epicure of the blade and he had had much practice, yet it required all his skill to defend himself; for D’Artagnan was energetic and nimble, departing every instant from the accepted rules of technique, attacking him on all sides at once yet parrying like a man with the greatest respect for his own epidermis.
At length these tactics exhausted Jussac’s patience. Enraged at being held in check by an adversary he had dismissed as a mere boy, he lost his temper and began to make mistakes. D’Artagnan, though lacking in experience, was schooled in the soundest theory; the more wildly Jussac lunged, the more agile the Gascon became. Jussac, determined to have done with him, sprang forward and lunged to the full extent of his reach, aiming a terrible thrust at D’Artagnan; the latter whipped his blade under Jussac’s, parrying in prime, and while Jussac was trying to get on guard again, D’Artagnan’s blade darted like a serpent below Jussac’s and passed through his body. Jussac fell like a log.
D’Artagnan then cast a swift, anxious glance over the field of battle. Aramis had killed one of his opponents but the other was pressing him warmly; nevertheless, Aramis was in good posture and able to look after himself Bicarat and Porthos had just made counter-hits, Porthos receiving a thrust through his arm,
Bicarat one through his thigh; but neither of these wounds was serious and they fought on ever more doggedly. Athos, wounded anew by Cahusac, grew increasingly pale but had not yielded an inch of ground; he had only changed his sword from one hand to the other and was now fighting with his left.
According to the dueling laws then in force, D’Artagnan was at liberty to assist whom he pleased. While endeavoring to ascertain which of his comrades stood in greatest need, he caught a glance from Athos. Its expression was of sublime eloquence. Athos would have rather died than appealed for help, but he could look and, in that look, ask for assistance. D’Artagnan, divining what Athos meant, sprang to Cahusac’s side with a terrible bound, crying:
“My turn, Monsieur le Garde; I am going to slay you!”
Cathusac wheeled about. D’Artagnan had intervened in the nick of time, for Athos, who had been fighting on sheer nerve, sank on one knee.
“God’s blood,” he cried to D’Artagnan, “don’t kill him, lad! I have an old bone to pick with him when I am fit again. Just disarm him, make sure of his sword. That’s it! Oh, well done, well done!”
Athos gave vent to the last exclamation as he saw Cahusac’s sword fly through the air and land twenty paces away. Both Cahusac and D’Artagnan leapt forward at the same time, the former to recover his weapon, the latter to capture it, but D’Artagnan, being more active, reached it first and placed his foot upon it.
Cahusac ran over to the guardsman whom Aramis had killed, seized his rapier and returned toward D’Artagnan. But on the way he met Athos, who had recovered his breath during the short respite D’Artagnan had afforded him and who wished to resume the fight lest D’Artagnan kill Cahusac. D’Artagnan realized that he would be disobliging Athos not to leave him alone, and, a few minutes later, Cahusac fell, pinked in the throat.
At the same instant Aramis placed his sword-point on the breast of his fallen adversary and forced him to beg for mercy. This left only Porthos and Bicarat to be accounted for. Porthos was indulging in all manner of braggadocio and swagger, asking Bicarat what time of day it might be and congratulating him on the fact that his brother had just obtained a company in the Regiment of Navarre. But, jest as he might, he was making no headway for Bicarat was one of those men of iron who never cry quits until they fall dead.
Meanwhile it was imperative to finish the fighting soon. There was danger of the watch coming by and picking up all the duelists, wounded or not, royalists or cardinalists. Athos, Aramis and D’Artagnan, surrounding Bicarat, called on him to surrender. Though one against four and wounded in the thigh, Bicarat was determined to hold out. Jussac, rising on his elbow, cried out to him to yield. But Bicarat, like D’Artagnan, was a Gascon; he turned a deaf ear and laughed as though it was all a huge joke. Between two parries he even found time to point with his sword at a patch of earth and, parodying a verse from the Bible, declare mock-heroically:
“Here shall Bicarat perish, alone of them which are beside him!”
“But they are four to one,” Jussac remonstrated. “Leave off, I command you.”
“Oh, if you command me, that’s another thing,” Bicarat agreed. “You are my superior officer, it is my duty to obey you.”
And, springing backward, he broke his sword across his knee to avoid having to surrender it, threw the two pieces over the convent wall, and crossed his arms, whistling a cardinalist air.
Bravery is always honored even in an enemy. The musketeers and D’Artagnan saluted Bicarat with their swords and returned them to their sheaths. Next, D’Artagnan, with the help of Bicarat, the only adversary still on his feet, carried Jussac, Cahusac and the guardsman Aramis had wounded, under the porch of the convent, leaving the dead man where he lay. Finally they rang the convent bell and, taking along four cardinalist swords as trophies of victory, they set out, wild with joy, for Monsieur de Tréville’s mansion.
Arm in arm, they strode, occupying the whole width of the street and, as every musketeer they met swelled their ranks, in the end their progress was a triumphal march. D’Artagnan was delirious with happiness as he marched between Athos and Porthos, squeezing their arms affectionately.
“If I’m not a musketeer yet,” he told his new-found friends as they swung through the gateway of the Hôtel de Tréville, “at least I’ve begun my apprenticeship, don’t you think?”
VI
HIS MAJESTY KING LOUIS THE THIRTEENTH
The affair caused a sensation. In public Monsieur de Tréville scolded them roundly but he congratulated them in private. Then, as no time must be lost in reaching the King and winning him over, he hastened to the Louvre. It was too late; His Majesty was already closeted with My Lord Cardinal and too busy, he was told, to receive him. That evening he went to the King’s gaming-table. His Majesty was winning, and, being very miserly, was in an excellent humor. Seeing Monsieur de Tréville at a distance, the King cried:
“Come, Monsieur le Capitaine, come here so I may chide you. Do you know that His Eminence has been complaining again about your musketeers, ay, Captain, and with such passion that he is out of sorts this evening? These musketeers of yours are devils incarnate and gallowsbirds all!”
Seeing at first glance how things would turn, Monsieur de Tréville hastened to deny the accusation. On the contrary, he insisted, his soldiers were kindly creatures and meek as lambs. He would personally warrant that they had but one desire, namely to draw their swords only in His Majesty’s service. But what were they to do? The Cardinal’s Guards were forever picking quarrels with them and they were obliged to defend themselves, if only for the honor of the corps.
“Hark at Monsieur de Tréville,” the King commented. “Hark at the man! Anybody would imagine he was speaking about the members of a religious order. In fact, my dear Captain, I’ve a good mind to take away your commission and give it to Mademoiselle de Chemerault, to whom I promised an abbey. But I do not think I will take you at your word. I am called Louis le Juste and justice shall prevail, Monsieur. By and by we shall see.…”
“It is because of my faith in that justice, Sire, that I shall calmly and patiently await the good pleasure of Your Majesty.”
“Wait then, Monsieur, wait; I shall not keep you long.”
Luck was turning against the King. As his winnings began to shrink, he was not sorry to find an excuse whereby to faire Charlemagne, to use a gambling term whose origin I do not know but which means to leave the table when one is in pocket. His Majesty rose and pocketing his winnings, turned to a courtier:
“La Vieuville,” he said, “take my place, for I must speak to Monsieur de Tréville about an urgent matter. Ah, I had eighty louis before me! Put down the same sum so that those who have lost money will have no cause for complaint. Justice comes first!”
Then, turning to Monsieur de Tréville, he walked toward the window.
“Well, Monsieur, you say that His Most Illustrious Eminence’s Guards sought a quarrel with Royal Musketeers?”
“Yes, Sire, just as they always do.”
“How did it happen? Tell me all about it. A judge must hear both sides of any question.”
“Well, Sire, it was like this. Three of my best soldiers, Athos, Porthos and Aramis, decided to go on a jaunt with a young fellow from Gascony to whom I had introduced them that morning. The party was to take place at Saint-Germain, I believe, so they decided to meet at the Carmelite convent. Here they were molested by De Jussac, Cahusac, Bicarat and two other guardsmen who certainly did not repair to such a place in such numbers without intending to flout the laws against dueling.
“I do not accuse them, Sire. But I leave Your Majesty to judge what five armed men could possibly want in so deserted a place as the convent pasture.
“Seeing my musketeers, the cardinalists changed their minds; their private grievances gave way to party hatred.”
“Ay, Tréville, how sad to see two parties in France, two heads to one kingdom. But this can’t go on forever!”
“Your Majesty’s servants devoutly hope so.
”
“So the Cardinal’s Guards picked a quarrel with the King’s Musketeers?”
“That probably happened but I cannot swear to it, Sire. Your Majesty knows how difficult it is to arrive at the truth, unless a man be gifted with that admirable instinct which has caused Louis XIII to be named Louis the Just.…”
“Right again, Tréville. But your three musketeers were not alone. They had a youth with them.”
“True, Sire, but one of the three was wounded. Thus the Royal Musketeers were represented by three soldiers, one of whom was wounded, plus a mere stripling. They stood up to five of the Cardinal’s stoutest guardsmen and laid four of them low.”
“What a victory for us!” The King beamed. “A complete victory!”
“As complete a victory, Sire, as Caesar won over Vercingetorix at the Bridge of Cé.”
“Four men, you say … one of them wounded … and a mere lad.…”
“A lad ridiculously young, Sire. But he behaved so proudly on this occasion that I take the liberty of recommending him to Your Majesty.”
“His name?”
“D’Artagnan, Sire … the son of one of my oldest friends … the son of a man who served throughout the Civil War under His Majesty, your father, of glorious memory.”
“He acquitted himself well, eh?” The King placed one hand on his hip and twirled his mustache with the other. “Tell me more, Tréville. You know how much I enjoy tales of fighting and warfare.”
“As I told you, Sire, D’Artagnan is little more than a boy. As he has not the honor of being a musketeer, he was in civilian dress. The Cardinal’s guardsmen, realizing at once that he was very young indeed and that he did not belong to the corps of musketeers, invited him to withdraw before they attacked.”
“Aha! you see, Tréville, it was they who attacked, eh? That is quite clear, eh?”
“It is, Sire. Well, when they called on him to withdraw, he told them that he was a musketeer at heart, that he was wholly devoted to the King, and that he chose to remain with His Majesty’s servants.”
The Modern Library Children's Classics Page 65
