“We believe like Mahometans and we are mute as tombstones,” said Athos.
“Very well then, I shall go on. This niece I mentioned often calls on her uncle; she happened to come yesterday while I was there and I had to offer to see her into her carriage.”
“So your theologian’s niece sports a carriage, eh?” Porthos interrupted, talkative as usual. “Congratulations on your distinguished acquaintances.”
“I have had occasion to observe to you more than once, Porthos, that you are most indiscreet,” Aramis answered. “That sort of thing does you much harm in the eyes of the ladies.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” cried D’Artagnan, who began to glimpse what the outcome of the story might be. “This matter is serious. Let us not jest. Go ahead, Aramis, carry on.”
“All right, D’Artagnan. Suddenly I saw a gentleman, a tall dark man very much like your man of Meung—”
“Perhaps it was my man!”
“It may well have been,” Aramis agreed. “Anyhow, he advanced towards me, followed at an interval of ten paces by five or six men. ‘Monsieur …’ he said courteously to me, and ‘Madame …’ to the lady on my arm …”
“The doctor’s niece!”
“Porthos, hold your tongue, you’re unbearable!”
“ ‘… Monsieur, Madame, will you be good enough to step into this carriage without offering the slightest resistance or making the least noise?’ ”
“He took you for Buckingham!” D’Artagnan exploded.
“I rather believe so.”
“But the lady?” Porthos persisted.
“He took her for the Queen,” D’Artagnan said.
“Exactly,” Aramis assented.
“That Gascon is the Devil!” cried Athos. “Nothing escapes him.”
“As a matter of fact,” Porthos opined, “Aramis is about as tall as the dashing Duke and has something of the same build. Still, I should imagine the uniform of a musketeer—”
“I wore an enormous cloak.”
“In July!” Porthos gasped. “Devil take it! Is your doctor of theology afraid somebody might recognize you?”
“I can understand how the spy might have mistaken your person, Aramis, but your face—”
“I wore a large, wide-brimmed hat.”
“Heavens!” Porthos laughed. “What elaborate precautions you take to go to study theology!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” D’Artagnan urged, “let us waste no more time in jesting. Let us rather separate and look for the haberdasher’s wife. She holds the key to the riddle.”
“Do you really think so, D’Artagnan?” Porthos curled his lip contemptuously. “A woman of such humble standing.”
“She is the goddaughter of La Porte, confidential valet to the Queen. Didn’t I tell you that? Besides, on this occasion Her Majesty may deliberately have sought the support of a person of modest station. The heads of those high in rank are very conspicuous and the Cardinal’s eyesight is of the best.”
“The first thing to do,” Porthos counseled, “is to drive a bargain, and a good one, with your haberdasher.”
“That’s useless,” D’Artagnan replied. “I have an idea that if Bonacieux fails to pay us, we shall be paid handsomely by another party.”
Suddenly footsteps resounded on the stairs, the door flew open and the luckless haberdasher rushed in.
“Save me, gentlemen, for the love of Heaven, save me!” he wailed. “There are four men downstairs who came to arrest me. Save me, save me!”
Porthos and Aramis sprang to their feet; D’Artagnan intervened hastily:
“Not so fast, gentlemen!” He motioned to them to sheathe their half-drawn swords. “It is not courage we need now, but prudence—”
“Are we to stand here,” Porthos stormed, “and allow—”
“You will allow D’Artagnan to do as he thinks best,” Athos declared. “He is, as I said before, the brainiest one of our lot. For my part, I am prepared to obey him. Do whatever you wish, D’Artagnan.”
At that moment, the four bailiffs appeared at the door of the antechamber but seeing four musketeers standing there, fully armed, they seemed somewhat hesitant about entering.
“Come in, gentlemen, come in,” D’Artagnan called to them. “This is my apartment and we are all faithful servants of the King and of the Cardinal.”
“So you have no objection to our carrying out our orders, gentlemen?”
“On the contrary, we would assist you if that were necessary.”
“What on earth is D’Artagnan saying?” Porthos muttered.
“You’re a simpleton!” Porthos whispered. “Silence!”
The wretched haberdasher protested in a whisper:
“But you promised me—”
“We can save you only by remaining free ourselves,” D’Artagnan whispered. “If we appeared eager to defend you, we would be arrested too.”
“All the same, it seems to me—”
“Come, gentlemen, come,” said D’Artagnan, aloud. “I have no reason to defend Monsieur here. I saw him today for the first time in my life. He can tell you in what circumstances we met; he came to collect the rent for my lodgings. Is this true or no, Monsieur Bonacieux? Answer!”
“That is quite true,” the landlord answered. “But Monsieur has not told you—”
“Not a word about me, not a word about my friends, and above all, not a word about the Queen, or you will ruin everybody without saving yourself!” D’Artagnan cautioned Bonacieux. Then aloud to the bailiffs: “Come, gentlemen, take this fellow away!” With which he pushed the stunned haberdasher into the arms of the bailiffs. “You are a fine rascal, my man,” he told Bonacieux. “Imagine coming to dun me for money—me, a musketeer! Away with him, take him to prison! Gentlemen, once again I beg you, take him into custody and keep him behind bars as long as ever you can. That will give me time to pay him.”
The myrmidons of the law, mouthing their thanks, took away their prey. But just as they were about to go downstairs, D’Artagnan clapped their leader on the shoulder:
“Come, I must drink to your health and you to mine!” he said jovially, filling two glasses with the Beaugency he owed to Monsieur Bonacieux’s liberality.
“You do me too much honor,” said the leader of the posse, “I accept, and thanks for your kindness, I’m sure.”
“Well then, here’s to you, Monsieur—Monsieur—? What is your name?”
“Boisrenard.”
“Your health, then, Monsieur Boisrenard.”
“To yours, honored gentleman! And what is your name, if I may make so bold—?”
“D’Artagnan.”
“Here’s to your health, Monsieur.”
“But first and foremost, above all healths,” cried D’Artagnan, as if carried away by his enthusiasm, “I drink to the King and the Cardinal!”
Had the wine been bad, the bailiff might have questioned D’Artagnan’s sincerity; but the wine was good, and he was convinced.
“What devilish villainy have you been up to?” Porthos inquired after the bailiff had joined his companions. “Shame on us, shame! Four musketeers have just stood by without moving a finger and allowed an unfortunate fellow who called for help to be arrested under their very noses! And the gentleman responsible for all this has to hobnob with a bailiff. For shame!”
“Look here, Porthos,” Aramis said. “Athos has already told you that you are a simpleton. May I add that I completely share his opinion? As for you, D’Artagnan, you are a great man. When you step into Monsieur de Tréville’s shoes—as undoubtedly you will—I shall ask you to use your influence to secure me an abbey.”
“Well, I am in a maze,” Porthos exclaimed. “Do you mean to say you approve of what D’Artagnan did?”
“Why of course I do!” Athos told him. “I not only approve of it but I offer him my heartiest congratulations.”
“And now, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan without troubling to explain his conduct to Porthos, “All for One and One for
All—that is our motto, is it not?”
“But still, look here, I—” Porthos demurred.
“Hold up your hand and swear!” Athos commanded.
“Swear, man!” Aramis insisted.
Overcome by the example of his comrades yet grumbling nevertheless, Porthos raised his hand and, with one voice, the four friends repeated the slogan dictated by D’Artagnan:
“All for One and One for All!”
“Excellent!” D’Artagnan approved. And as though he had done nothing all his life save issue orders: “Let us each go his own way now. And remember! From this moment on, we are at war with His Eminence the Cardinal!”
X
CONCERNING A MOUSETRAP IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
The invention of the mousetrap is not a modern one. When, long ago, human societies, in the process of formation, invented the police, the police invented the mousetrap.
As most of our readers are still unfamiliar with the slang of the Rue de Jérusalem and as fifteen years have elapsed since we applied the word mousetrap to the thing in question, it is perhaps pertinent to explain exactly what a mousetrap is.
When in a house of any kind a person suspected of a crime has been arrested, the arrest is kept secret. Four or five men are posted in ambush in the front room of the prisoner’s apartment. The door is opened to all who knock but, as it closes, the visitor becomes a prisoner. Thus within two or three days almost all the habitués of the house are in the hands of the police. Such then is the mousetrap.
Monsieur Bonacieux’s residence then became a mousetrap; whoever appeared was seized and investigated by the Cardinal’s men. However, as a special passage led to the second floor, where D’Artagnan lodged, his callers were exempt from molestation.
Besides no one save the three musketeers ever came there. They reported that they had all made careful independent investigations but to no avail; Athos had even gone so far as to question Monsieur de Tréville, a step which, in view of this worthy musketeer’s usual reticence, had much surprised his Captain. But Monsieur de Tréville knew nothing save that the last time he had seen the Cardinal, the King and the Queen, the Cardinal looked very anxious, the King seemed worried and the Queen’s bloodshot eyes betrayed either a sleepless night or much weeping. This last circumstance was not particularly striking, for since her marriage the Queen had known vigils and tears aplenty.
Monsieur de Tréville urged Athos scrupulously to observe his duty to the King and particularly to the Queen, and to convey the same orders to his companions.
As for D’Artagnan, nowadays he never stirred from his quarters. He turned his room into a sort of observatory. From the watchtower of his windows, he saw all who, entering the house, walked into the trap. He also removed a plank of the flooring and cleared enough of the foundation so that there was but a mere ceiling between him and the inquisition room below. Thus he could hear everything that passed between the Cardinal’s spies and their victims.
Those arrested were first submitted to a minute search of their persons. Then, almost invariably, they were asked:
“Has Madame Bonacieux given you anything to deliver to her husband or to another party? Has Monsieur Bonacieux given you anything to deliver to his wife or to another party? Has either of them confided anything to you by word of mouth?”
“If they knew anything they would not question people in this manner,” D’Artagnan mused. “Now what do they want to find out? Exactly this: whether the Duke of Buckingham is in Paris and whether he has had or is due to have an interview with the Queen.”
This idea was constantly uppermost in D’Artagnan’s mind especially since everything he had heard seemed to confirm its probability. Meanwhile the mousetrap—and D’Artagnan’s vigilance—never relaxed for a moment.
On the morrow of Monsieur Bonacieux’s arrest, late in the evening, on the stroke of nine, Athos left D’Artagnan’s to call at Monsieur de Tréville’s. Planchet, who had not yet made the bed, was setting to work when there was a knock at the street door. The door immediately opened and closed; someone was caught in the mousetrap!
D’Artagnan leapt to his listening-post and lay flat on his belly, his ear to the ground. Soon he heard cries, then moans which someone was apparently trying to stifle. Assuredly this was no mere exchange of questions and answers.
“Devil take it,” D’Artagnan thought. “It sounds like a woman. Probably they’re searching her and she’s resisting. They’re using force, the swine.…”
In spite of his prudence it was all D’Artagnan could do not to interrupt the scene.
“But I tell you I am the mistress of this house, gentlemen,” cried the unhappy woman. “I tell you I am Madame Bonacieux; I tell you I belong to the Queen.”
“Madame Bonacieux!” D’Artagnan murmured. “Have I found the person everyone is looking for?”
“You are exactly the lady we were awaiting.”
The voice grew more and more indistinct, then a series of bumps shook the wainscoting; no doubt the victim was struggling as fiercely as a lone woman could struggle against four men.
“Pardon, gentlemen, pard—” murmured the voice. Then it lapsed into inarticulate sounds.
“They have gagged her, they are going to drag her away.” D’Artagnan rose to his feet as though mechanically propelled by a spring. “My sword? Good, here it is! Planchet!”
“Monsieur?”
“Go fetch Athos, Porthos and Aramis. One of the three will surely be at home. Tell them to come here at once, fully armed. Tell them to run. Oh, I remember, Athos is at the Hôtel de Tréville.”
“But where are you going, Monsieur?”
“I’m going down through the window, it’s quicker. You put back the boards, sweep the floor, go out by the front door and off to where I told you.”
“Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur, you are going to get killed.”
“Hush, idiot!” said D’Artagnan. Vaulting over the windowsill, he clung to it for a moment, then dropped without mishap to the ground which fortunately was no very great distance. A second later, he was knocking at the street door, murmuring as he did so:
“It’s my turn to get caught in the mousetrap, but God help the cats that pounce on a mouse like me.”
The sound of his knock brought the tumult within to an abrupt halt; steps were heard approaching, the door opened and D’Artagnan, sword drawn, rushed into Monsieur Bonacieux’s apartment. This door clicked shut upon him.
Immediately the whole neighborhood heard loud cries, a stamping of many feet, a clash of swords, and a prolonged smashing of furniture. Those who, surprised at this bedlam, went to their windows to ascertain its cause, were rewarded by seeing the street door flung open again and four black-clad men emerging. These did not walk or run, they actually flew out like so many frightened crows, strewing furniture and ground with feathers from their wings or, in other words, patches of their clothes and tatters from their cloaks.
D’Artagnan emerged the victor without much effort, for only one of the officers was armed and he defended himself only for form’s sake. True, the three others attempted to fell the young man with chairs, stools and crockery, but two or three scratches from the Gascon’s blade terrified them. A scant ten minutes sufficed to put them to rout, leaving D’Artagnan undisputed master of the field of battle.
Such neighbors as had opened their windows with the habitual phlegm of Parisians in these times of riot and perpetual brawls, now closed them quite as phlegmatically. Seeing the four men in black disappear, they knew instinctively that for the moment at least the fun was over. Besides it was growing late and in those days, as today, early to bed was the watchword in the Luxembourg quarter.
Left alone with Madame Bonacieux, D’Artagnan turned toward where the poor woman lay back, deep in an armchair, half-conscious. One swift glance revealed a charming woman of twenty-five or twenty-six, with dark hair, blue eyes and a slightly retroussé nose, admirable teeth and a complexion marbled with rose and opal. There however ended whate
ver resemblance she bore to a lady of rank: her hands were white but without delicacy, her feet did not bespeak your lady of quality. Happily D’Artagnan was not yet acquainted with such niceties of social distinction.
While he was surveying Madame Bonacieux and had, as we have said, reached her feet, he noticed a fine cambric handkerchief lying on the floor. True to habit, he picked it up. In one corner he recognized the same crest he had seen on the handkerchief which had almost caused Aramis to cut his throat.
Ever since that occasion D’Artagnan looked askance at handkerchiefs with crests on them, so without a word he put this one back into Madame Bonacieux’s pocket.
At that moment, Madame Bonacieux recovered her senses. Opening her eyes, she cast a glance of terror about her, then realized that the apartment was empty and that she was alone with her liberator. Smiling, she stretched out her hands to him—and Madame Bonacieux had the sweetest smile in all the world!
“Ah, Monsieur, you saved me! Pray let me thank you—”
“Madame, you owe me no thanks. I did what any gentleman would have done in my place.”
“Oh, but I do owe you thanks, Monsieur, and I hope to prove to you that you have not befriended an ingrate. But tell me … those men … I took them for robbers at first … What did they want with me?… And why isn’t Monsieur Bonacieux here?”
“Madame, these men were far more dangerous than any robbers could be; they were agents of the Cardinal. As for your husband, he isn’t here because he was picked up yesterday and taken to the Bastille.”
“My husband in the Bastille! Oh, my God! What has he done? Poor dear man, he is innocence personified.”
And something like a smile fluttered over her face.
“What has he done?” D’Artagnan echoed. “I think his only crime consists in having at once the good fortune and misfortune to be your husband.”
“But Monsieur, then you know—?”
“I know that you were abducted, Madame.”
“Who did it, Monsieur? Do you know? If you do know, then please, please tell me who it was!”
“You were abducted by a man forty or forty-five years old, with black hair, a swarthy complexion, and a scar on his left temple.”
The Modern Library Children's Classics Page 70
