“A brave lad!”
“He was as good as his word, Sire. Your Majesty can be proud of him. He pinked De Jussac, to the Cardinal’s vast annoyance.”
“He wounded De Jussac? He, a mere boy? De Jussac, one of the top swordsmen in the kingdom.”
“Well, Sire, this youth felled De Jussac.”
“I want to see him, Tréville, I want to see him. If anything can be done, we shall make it our business.…”
“When will Your Majesty deign to receive him?”
“Tomorrow at noon, Tréville.”
“Shall I bring him alone?”
“No, bring all four of them, I wish to thank them at once. Loyal servants are rare; they deserve to be rewarded.”
“We shall report at noon tomorrow, Sire!”
“Good!” the King said. Then fidgeting nervously: “Er—the back staircase, Tréville, come up the back staircase. There’s no point in letting His Eminence know—”
“Of course, Sire.”
“You understand, Tréville, an edict is an edict and, after all, dueling has been banned.”
“But this was no duel, Sire, it was a brawl. The proof is that five of the Cardinal’s Guards set upon my three musketeers and Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Quite so,” the King agreed. “All the same, Tréville, make sure to take the back staircase.”
Tréville smiled at the monarch’s weakness but there was satisfaction in his smile, too, for he felt he had accomplished something by prevailing upon this child to rebel against his master.
That evening the four stalwarts were informed of the honor bestowed upon them. Having been long acquainted with the King, the musketeers were not particularly impressed, but D’Artagnan, his Gascon imagination aflame, saw in this summons the making of his future fortune. All night long, he dreamed golden dreams.
By eight o’clock next morning he was calling for Athos; he found him fully dressed and ready to go out. As their audience with the King was not till noon, Athos had arranged to play tennis with Porthos and Aramis at a court near the Luxembourg stables. He invited D’Artagnan to join them. The Gascon, ignorant of a game he had never played, nevertheless accepted. What else was he to do during the next four hours?
Porthos and Aramis were already on the court, playing together; Athos, who was an excellent athlete, passed over to the other side and, with D’Artagnan as a partner, challenged them. But though Athos played with his left hand, his first shot convinced him that his wound was still too recent to permit of such exertion. D’Artagnan therefore remained alone and, as he declared his complete ignorance of the game, they simply tried rallying, without scoring their points. A smashing ball from Porthos just missed hitting D’Artagnan in the face; had it done so, D’Artagnan would have been compelled to forego his audience with the King. As in his Gascon imagination his whole future life depended upon this meeting, he bowed politely to Porthos and Aramis, declaring that he would not resume the game until he knew enough about it to play with them on equal terms. Then he returned to a seat in the gallery close to the court.
Unfortunately for D’Artagnan, one of His Eminence’s Guards was among the spectators. Still chafing at the defeat his comrades had suffered just the day before, he had promised himself to seize the earliest opportunity to obtain revenge. He now saw his chance, and, turning to his neighbor:
“I am not surprised this youth is afraid of a tennis ball,” he drawled. “He must surely be a ’prentice musketeer.”
D’Artagnan started as though a serpent had stung him. Then he turned and stared at the guardsman.
“La!” the cardinalist continued, twirling his mustache insolently, “you may stare at me as long as you like, my little gentleman, I have said what I have said.”
“Your words are too clear to require a commentary,” D’Artagnan replied. “I beg you to follow me out of here.”
“And when, pray?” the guardsman asked banteringly.
“At once, if you please.”
“By the way, do you know who I am?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea and I don’t care.”
“You’re wrong, there. If you knew my name, perhaps you would be more careful.”
“What is your name?”
“Bernajoux, at your service.”
“Well, Monsieur Bernajoux, I shall wait for you at the door.”
“Proceed, Monsieur, I shall join you in a minute.”
“Do not hurry, Monsieur. We must not be seen going out together. Any witnesses at our interview might cramp our style.”
“True, true,” the guardsman agreed.
He was surprised that his name had made no impression on the Gascon, for he was known to everybody, everywhere, with perhaps the solitary exception of D’Artagnan. His Eminence the Cardinal might heap up edicts against dueling to his heart’s content, Bernajoux continued to figure as instigator or liquidator of daily brawls.
Porthos and Aramis were so intent on their game and Athos so busy observing them that they did not notice D’Artagnan’s exit. True to his word, D’Artagnan stood by the door, waiting; a moment later, Bernajoux joined him. With no time to lose because of his audience with the King, D’Artagnan looked up and down the street, found it empty, and decided to fight then and there.
“Upon my word, though you may be called Bernajoux,” he said, “it is lucky you have only a ’prentice musketeer to deal with. But never mind, I shall do my best. On guard, please!”
“This is no place to fight,” the other objected. “We would be better off behind the Abbey of Saint-Germain or in the Pré-aux-Clercs.”
“What you say makes excellent sense,” D’Artagnan agreed. “Unfortunately, I have very little time to spare; I have an appointment at twelve sharp. On guard, then, Monsieur, I beg you.”
Bernajoux was not the man to entertain two requests to draw; an instant later, his sword glittered in the sunlight and he swooped down on D’Artagnan, thinking to intimidate him. But D’Artagnan had served his apprenticeship the day before. Fresh from a spectacular victory and fired by hopes of favors soon forthcoming, he was determined not to budge an inch. So the two swords were hilt to hilt and, as D’Artagnan stood his ground, it was Bernajoux who had to retreat. In doing so, Bernajoux’s sword deviated from the line of guard; D’Artagnan at once freed his blade by passing it under his adversary’s, and lunged, pinking Bernajoux on the shoulder. Then D’Artagnan stepped back and, according to the rites of dueling, raised his sword to salute his defeated foe.
But Bernajoux would have none of it. Assuring D’Artagnan that he was unscathed, he rushed blindly at him, actually spitting himself upon the Gascon’s sword. As he did not fall, he refused to declare himself conquered. Instead, he kept retreating towards the mansion of the Duc de La Trémouille, in whose service he had a relative. D’Artagnan, unaware of how serious Bernajoux’s wounds were, kept pressing him and would no doubt have struck him a third deadly blow. But the noise from the street had reached the tennis court. Two fellow-cardinalists, who had seen Bernajoux leave after an exchange of words with D’Artagnan, rushed out, sword in hand, and swept down upon him. Close on their heels came Athos, Porthos and Aramis and, just as the cardinalists attacked D’Artagnan, the three musketeers intervened to drive them back. Bernajoux suddenly fell, exhausted. Since there were now four royalists against two cardinalists, the latter cried for help.
“A nous, l’Hôtel de La Trémouille! To the rescue! To the rescue!”
Immediately, all those in Monsieur de la Trémouille’s mansion, coming to the aid of the cardinalists, fell upon the victors. Our four friends set up an antiphonal cry: “A nous, mousquetaires!” summoning their comrades to the fight.
This appeal was widely and briskly heeded, for the musketeers, notorious foes of His Eminence, were correspondingly popular. Usually men from the Royal Companies of Guards cast their lot in with the musketeers against the henchmen of the man Aramis had dubbed the Red Duke. Three guardsmen from the company of Monsieur des Essarts
happened to be passing; two of them immediately joined in the fray while the third ran off to the Hôtel de Tréville to seek reenforcements. As usual there were plenty of musketeers on the premises; they ran to their comrades’ help and the mêlée became general. Very soon, the musketeers and their allies prevailed; the Cardinal’s guardsmen and Monsieur de La Trémouille’s servants beat a hasty retreat into the Hôtel de La Trémouille, slamming the gates just in time to prevent their pursuers from entering after them. As for Bernajoux, he had been picked up and conveyed to safety early in the battle; his condition was critical.
Excitement was at its height among the musketeers and their supporters. Somebody suggested that they set fire to the Trémouille mansion to punish Monsieur de La Trémouille’s servants for their insolence in daring to make a sally against the Royal Musketeers. The motion, duly seconded, was received enthusiastically; ways and means were being blithely debated, when, as luck would have it, the clock struck eleven. D’Artagnan and his friends recalled their audience with the King and because they could not fight it out then and there, they prevailed on their friends to retire. The royalists decided to hurl some paving stones against the gates but the gates were too solid and they soon tired of the sport. Besides, the leaders of the enterprise had left the group and were on their way to the Hôtel de Tréville. Arriving there, they found the Captain of Musketeers awaiting them; he was already informed of their latest escapade.
“Quick, to the Louvre,” he said, “we must get there before the King has been influenced by His Eminence. We will describe this business as a consequence of yesterday’s trouble and pass the two off together.”
Accordingly the four young men and their Commanding Officer set off for the Royal Palace. To Monsieur de Tréville’s amazement, he was told that the King had gone stag-hunting in the forest of Saint-Germain. Monsieur de Tréville asked to have this information repeated to him no less than twice; each time, his companions noticed that his face darkened.
“Did His Majesty plan yesterday to go hunting?”
“No, Your Excellency, it was all quite sudden,” the valet replied. “The Master of Hounds called this morning to say that he had marked down a stag last night for His Majesty’s benefit. At first the King said he would not go, but he could not resist a day’s hunting, so he left shortly after dinner.”
“Did His Majesty see the Cardinal?”
“Most probably, Your Excellency,” the valet answered. “I saw His Eminence’s horses being harnessed. I asked where he was going and they told me to Saint-Germain.”
“The Cardinal has stolen a march on us,” Monsieur de Tréville told his protégés. “I shall see His Majesty this evening, gentlemen, but I advise you not to venture to do so.”
This advice from a man who knew the King only too well was unassailable. They agreed to return home to await further developments.
For his part, Monsieur de Tréville determined that he had best register an immediate complaint. He therefore dispatched a servant with a letter to Monsieur de La Trémouille, begging him to expel the Cardinal’s guards from his house and to rebuke his servants for their audacity in making a sortie against the Royal Musketeers. But Monsieur de La Trémouille, already prejudiced by his esquire, Bernajoux’s kinsman, replied that neither Monsieur de Tréville nor his soldiers had reason for complaint. On the contrary, he, De La Trémouille was the offended party because the musketeers had assailed his servitors and planned to burn his mansion. The debate between these two nobles might have been endlessly protracted as each, quite naturally, persisted in his opinion. Happily Monsieur de Tréville imagined an expedient likely to end it quickly. He would go personally to call upon Monsieur de La Trémouille.
The two nobles exchanged polite greetings, for, though they were not friends, they respected each other. Both were men of courage and honor and as Monsieur de La Trémouille was a Protestant, saw the King seldom, and belonged to no party, he generally allowed no bias to affect his social relations. On this occasion, however, his manner though courteous was cooler than usual.
“Monsieur,” said the Captain of Musketeers, “each of us believes that he has cause for complaint against the other. I have come here to attempt to clear up our misunderstanding.”
“I am perfectly willing, Monsieur, but I warn you that I have made inquiries and that the fault lies wholly with your musketeers.”
“You are too fair-minded and reasonable a man, Monsieur, not to entertain a proposition I should like to make.”
“Make it, Monsieur, I am at your service.”
“How is Monsieur Bernajoux, your esquire’s kinsman?”
“Very ill indeed. His wound in the arm is not dangerous but he was run through the lungs too, and the doctor is much alarmed.”
“Is he still conscious?”
“Certainly.”
“Can he talk?”
“Yes, but with difficulty.”
“Well, Monsieur, let us go to his bedside and call upon him to tell us the truth in the name of that God Whom he may have to face all too soon. I am perfectly willing to let him judge his own cause and to abide by whatever he says.”
Monsieur de La Trémouille thought the matter over for a moment, found the suggestion eminently reasonable, and agreed. Together he and Tréville repaired to the sickroom. As they entered, the patient tried desperately to rise in his bed, but his strength failed him; exhausted, he fell back on the pillows. Monsieur de La Trémouille picked up a vial of salts and pressed it against Bernajoux’s nostrils; in a few moments the guardsman came to. Unwilling to appear to be exerting pressure, the Captain of Musketeers suggested that Monsieur de La Trémouille himself question Bernajoux.
The upshot of it all was exactly as Tréville had foreseen. Hovering between life and death, Bernajoux made a clean breast of everything that had occurred. This was all that Monsieur de Tréville desired. Wishing Bernajoux a speedy convalescence, he took leave of Monsieur de La Trémouille, returned to his mansion, and immediately sent word to the four friends, inviting them to dinner.
The Captain of Musketeers entertained the most distinguished company in Paris, short of cardinalists. Quite naturally, therefore, the conversation throughout dinner dealt with the two setbacks His Eminence’s Guards had suffered. D’Artagnan, as the hero of both fights, was showered with congratulations, to the delight of Athos, Porthos and Aramis. It was not out of good fellowship alone that they envied him no whit of his success; they had themselves so often had their turn in similar circumstances that they could well afford to leave him his turn.
Toward six o’clock, Monsieur de Tréville announced that it was time to go to the Louvre. The hour of the audience granted by His Majesty was long since past, so instead of claiming entrance up the back staircase, he led the four young men into the antechamber. The King had not returned from hunting. The courtiers and others waited for about a half-hour. Suddenly all the doors were thrown open and an usher announced His Majesty the King. D’Artagnan trembled with anticipation; he was thrilled to the core for he felt that the next few minutes would probably decide the rest of his life. Anxiously, he stared at the doorway through which the monarch was to enter.
Louis XIII appeared, his henchmen in his wake. He was clad in dusty hunting dress; his high boots reached over his knees and he held a riding-crop in his right hand. At first glance D’Artagnan realized that His Majesty was very much out of sorts.
The royal displeasure, obvious though it was, did not prevent the courtiers from lining up, right and left, to form a human avenue down which His Majesty might proceed. At court, it is better to be noticed even with an angry eye than not to be seen at all. The three musketeers, therefore, did not hesitate to step forward. As for D’Artagnan, he stood behind them. Though the King knew Athos, Porthos and Aramis, he swept by without a word or glance of recognition; but as he passed Monsieur de Tréville and looked at him a moment, Tréville outstared his master. Grumbling, His Majesty entered his apartment.
“Things are going b
adly,” Athos commented, smiling. “We shall not be appointed Chevaliers of the Royal Order this time.”
“Wait here for about ten minutes,” Monsieur de Tréville told his protégés. “If I do not return by then, it will be useless to stay on; go back to the Hôtel de Tréville.”
Obediently they waited ten minutes, fifteen, twenty; finally, apprehensive of what might be happening, they withdrew.
Monsieur de Tréville marched boldly into the King’s rooms to find a very glum Majesty, ensconced in an armchair, beating his boots with the handle of his riding-crop. This did not prevent the Captain of Musketeers from inquiring phlegmatically after the royal health.
“Bad, Monsieur, bad as can be,” the King answered. “I am bored, I am bored stiff!”
Indeed, Louis XIII suffered chronically from ennui. Often he would lead a courtier to the window, invite him to gaze out upon the scene below, and say: “Monsieur, let us suffer boredom together!”
“What? Bored? I thought Your Majesty had been enjoying the pleasures of hunting.”
“Pleasures, Monsieur? Fine pleasures indeed! I don’t know whether it’s because the game leaves no scent or because the dogs have no noses, but everything is arseyturvy! We started a stag of ten branches and chased him for six hours; we were just about to take him, Saint-Simon was raising his horn to blow the mort, when before we could catch our breath, the whole pack took to the wrong scent and dashed off after a two-year-old. I shall be forced to give up hunting just as I had to give up falconry. Ah, I am a very unhappy monarch, Monsieur, I had only one gerfalcon and he died the day before yesterday.”
“Indeed, Sire, I understand your discomfort. It was a great misfortune. But you still have a number of falcons, sparrowhawks and tiercets.”
“And not a man to train them. Falconers are disappearing; I alone know the noble art of venery. Let me die and all will be over; people will hunt with gins, snares and traps. If I only had time to train a few pupils! But no! The Cardinal will not give me a moment’s respite, what with his talk about Austria, his talk about England, his talk about Spain. Ah, speaking of His Eminence, I am much annoyed at you, Monsieur de Tréville.”
The Modern Library Children's Classics Page 66
