The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  “Where?”

  “In the small room adjoining her dressing-room at the Hôtel de Ville.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “It happened whilst I was kissing Her Majesty’s hand—”

  “You kissed the Queen’s hand!” Monsieur de Tréville looked at D’Artagnan more closely.

  “Her Majesty did me the honor to grant me this signal favor.”

  “In the presence of witnesses? How rash of her, how terribly rash!”

  “No, Monsieur, do not worry, no one saw the Queen!”

  And D’Artagnan related every circumstance of the night before.

  “Oh, woman, woman!” the old soldier philosophized. “Who can fail to recognize her by her romantic imagination! Everything that smacks of mystery charms her! You saw an arm, no more! Should you meet the Queen you would not recognize her; should she meet you, she would not know who you are.”

  “I daresay not, Monsieur, but thanks to this diamond …”

  “Look here, young man, let me give you a piece of advice, sound advice, the advice of a friend—”

  “I would be much honored, Monsieur.”

  “Well, go to the nearest jeweler and sell him that diamond for whatever he will give you. However much of a bargainer he may be, you will get at least eight hundred pistoles for it. Pistoles are an anonymous commodity and your ring is terribly personal. Remember it may betray whoever wears it.”

  “I, sell this ring—? I sell a ring which comes to me from my Queen! Never!”

  “Then at least turn the diamond inwards, silly lad! Do you think anyone believes a cadet of Gascony finds such jewels in his mother’s jewel-case?”

  “I still do not see what I have to fear,” D’Artagnan argued.

  “Oh, nothing at all,” Monsieur de Tréville said airily. “You are as safe as a man resting on a mine whose fuse is burning.”

  Monsieur de Tréville’s solemn and positive tone gave the young Gascon some pause; he felt somewhat worried.

  “The devil, Monsieur, what am I to do?”

  “Be constantly and steadfastly on your guard. The Cardinal has a long memory and a long reach. Take my word for it, he will play you some sorry trick.”

  “But what can he do, Monsieur?”

  “Good Heavens, how can I tell? His Eminence has all the devil’s calendar of tricks at his command. The best you can possibly hope for is to be arrested.”

  “Even His Eminence would not dare to arrest a soldier in His Majesty’s service?”

  “Did they hesitate about arresting Athos!” Monsieur de Tréville sighed. “Advice is cheap, but I beg you to take that of a man who has been at Court for thirty years. Do not lull yourself in security or you are done for. On the contrary, I insist, look out for enemies on every hand. If anyone picks a quarrel with you, even a child of ten, avoid it … if you are attacked, day or night, take to your heels shamelessly … if you cross a bridge, test every board of it for fear that one might give way underfoot … when you pass a house being built or repaired, look up lest a stone fall on your head … if you stay out late, be sure your lackey follows you and be sure he is armed, if, incidentally, you are sure you can trust your lackey.… Suspect everyone: your friend, your brother, your mistress—especially your mistress!”

  D’Artagnan blushed, and mechanically:

  “My mistress? Why should I suspect her more than anyone else, Monsieur?”

  “Because the Cardinal uses mistresses to the best advantage; they are his most efficient agents. Women have been known to sell their lovers down the river for ten pistoles. Witness Delilah, or do you remember the Bible?”

  D’Artagnan thought of his appointment with Madame Bonacieux that very evening. But, to his credit, Monsieur de Tréville’s misogyny could not prejudice him against his pretty landlady.

  “By the way,” Monsieur de Tréville inquired, “what of your three comrades?”

  “I was about to ask you, Monsieur, if you had news of them?”

  “No. None.”

  “Well, Monsieur, I lost them by the wayside: Porthos at Chantilly with a duel on his hands … Aramis at Crèvecoeur with a bullet in his shoulder … and Athos at Amiens accused of counterfeiting.…”

  Monsieur de Tréville pointed out that these three instances were proof of the Cardinal’s long reach:

  “How in the devil’s name did you get away?” he concluded.

  “By a miracle, Monsieur, I must confess. The Comte de Vardes pinked me in the chest but I nailed him down to a Calais byroad like a butterfly on a tapestry.”

  “De Vardes, eh? A cardinalist, a cousin of Rochefort’s, I know them! But stop, my friend, I have an idea.”

  “Ay, Monsieur.”

  “Were I you, I would—”

  “What, Monsieur?”

  “I would get away while His Eminence was looking for me in the city … I would very quietly take the road to Picardy … I would enjoy myself riding over a pleasant countryside … and I would make inquiries about the fate of my comrades who, I dare say, richly deserve that courtesy on your part.…”

  “Monsieur, your advice is excellent and I promise to set out tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Why not tonight?”

  “Tonight, Sir, I am unavoidably detained in town.”

  “Come, lad, I know: some bird of amorous passage, eh? Heigh-ho, youth will be served! Still, I repeat, please take care of yourself: it was woman by whom we fell when Adam fell, frail as we are, and woman will ruin us one and all, so long as we draw breath!” (Monsieur de Tréville was of Gascon and Protestant stock but a good soldier withal.) “Take my word for it, lad,” he concluded. “Away with you this evening.”

  “Impossible, Monsieur.”

  “You have pledged your word to spend the night in town?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Well, that puts a different complexion upon present matters.” Monsieur de Tréville stroked his beard. Then suddenly: “If you’re not killed tonight—and well you may be—will you set out tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely, Monsieur, on my word of honor.”

  “Do you need any money?”

  “I still have fifty pistoles. That should certainly serve my needs.”

  “And your friends?”

  “I doubt whether they need money, Monsieur. Each of us had seventy-five pistoles when we left town.”

  “Shall I see you before you leave?”

  “I doubt it, Monsieur, unless something new turns up.”

  “Well, good luck to you, lad.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur.”

  D’Artagnan left Tréville, more than ever touched by his paternal solicitude for the men under him, his musketeers, the crack soldiers of the Army. He had a busy evening before him. He must visit Athos, Porthos and Aramis in turn. He did so, to discover that none of them had reported home; their lackeys, too, were absent, and there was no news of masters or servants. D’Artagnan, by now desperate, would have sought news of them from their mistresses—Porthos was cherished by an attorney’s wife … Aramis had a highly-placed lady in the offing … Athos stood alone … But he did not know who their mistresses were. Passing by the Hôtel des Gardes, he looked into the stable. Three of the four horses Lord Buckingham had given him were already in their stalls; Planchet, much impressed, had groomed down two of them.

  “Monsieur, how glad I am to see you!”

  “Why, Planchet?”

  “Do you trust Bonacieux, Monsieur?”

  “As I would the plague.”

  “How right you are, Monsieur.”

  “But why do you ask me?” Planchet scratched his brow.

  “Well, Monsieur, this is what happened,” he explained. “While you were talking to Monsieur Bonacieux, I watched him. I didn’t hear a word you said but I saw him fidgeting about and I swear he turned pale and blushed and looked very uncomfortable.…”

  “Nonsense, Planchet!”

  “Monsieur did not notice all this, for Monsieur was too much preoccupied
by the letter he had just received. But Planchet was on guard, Planchet was suspicious of a letter that appeared in our house supernaturally, and Planchet watched every change of expression on our landlord’s face.”

  “So you—”

  “So I found his every expression full of guile—”

  “Indeed?”

  “Pray listen, Monsieur. So soon as you turned the corner of the street, Bonacieux picked up his hat, closed the door and ran down the street.”

  “Right, Planchet, the man is a suspicious character. Never mind though; we will pay no rent until we thrash all this out.”

  “Monsieur jests, but we shall see—”

  “Cheer up, Planchet, what is written is written.”

  “Does Monsieur insist on our evening’s outing?”

  “Of course I do. The more I suspect Bonacieux, the more firmly I intend to keep my appointment.”

  “Then Monsieur is determined—?”

  “My mind is made up, Planchet, I shall go through with this. Be here at nine, I shall come by for you.”

  The lackey concluded that all hope of persuading his master to abandon his rash intent was irremediably lost. Fetching a deep sigh, he set to currying the third horse. As for D’Artagnan—at bottom a cautious fellow—instead of going home he called to dine with the Gascon priest who had once before befriended him and the musketeers, when, out of pocket, they had breakfasted with him, chocolate included.

  XXIV

  THE LODGE

  At nine o’clock D’Artagnan, true to his word, stopped at the barracks of the Royal Guards. Planchet awaited him, fully armed. The fourth horse had arrived. D’Artagnan made sure that Planchet had his musketoon and one pistol, both primed; he himself slipped two pistols in his holsters and they rode off. It was very dark. Under cover of the darkness, they made off unseen, Planchet some ten paces in his master’s wake.

  D’Artagnan crossed the quais, left town by the Porte de La Conférence and followed the road to Saint-Cloud, a pleasanter and more beautiful road than it is now.

  So long as they were in the city, Planchet kept at a respectful distance; but as the road loomed up before them, ever darker and more deserted, he kept inching up closer so that as they reached the Bois de Boulogne he rode abreast of his master. Truth to tell the huge branches of the trees as they waved in the wind and the reflection of the moon in the black thickets afforded Planchet a certain anxiety. D’Artagnan could not but notice that his lackey was uneasy.

  “Well, well, Planchet, what is the matter?”

  “This may sound funny, Monsieur … I mean … I mean: Don’t you find that woods are very much like churches.”

  “How so, Planchet?”

  “Well, Monsieur, we daren’t speak aloud in either.”

  “Why not, Planchet? Are you afraid?”

  “Yes, Monsieur, that I am.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid of being overheard, Monsieur.”

  “Of being overheard?” D’Artagnan laughed. “Is there anything immoral in our conversation? Who could possibly object to it?”

  Planchet, sighing, returned to his besetting idea.

  “Monsieur,” he said, “There is something about Bonacieux … something evil in his eyebrows and something downright vicious in the play of his lips.…”

  “Why mention Bonacieux now?”

  “Monsieur, a man thinks as he can, not as he will.”

  “That is because you are a coward.”

  “Monsieur, cowardice and caution are horses of a different color; I am cautious, not cowardly. Prudence is a virtue.”

  “And you are very virtuous, eh?”

  “Look Monsieur, there to the left. Don’t you see a musket gleaming? Let us duck quickly—”

  “God help us,” D’Artagnan mused, “this wretch of a lackey will end by terrifying me.” He recalled Monsieur de Tréville’s advice in all its particulars. (“Be sure your lackey follows you,” Tréville had said, “if incidentally, you are sure you can trust your lackey.”) And D’Artagnan roused his horse to a trot, Planchet clinging to him like his shadow.

  “Are we to ride on and on all night, Monsieur?” Planchet inquired.

  “No, Planchet, you have gone far enough.”

  “I, Monsieur? And what of you?”

  “I am going on a little.”

  “And you are leaving me here alone, Monsieur?”

  “Are you frightened?”

  “Not in the least, Monsieur. But I beg leave to observe that it is turning very cold and likely to turn colder … that cold brings on chills … that chills cause rheumatism … and that a lackey with rheumatism is worse than useless, particularly to as active a master as you, Monsieur.…”

  “Very well, Planchet, if you feel cold, you can go into one of those huts there. Turn in, keep warm, and wait at the door for me at six sharp tomorrow morning.”

  “Begging your pardon, Monsieur, I respectfully ate and drank up the crown Monsieur gave me this morning. I have not a sou and if I should happen to need the wherewithal to warm up—”

  “Here’s half a pistole, Planchet. Remember: tomorrow at six.”

  D’Artagnan dismounted, tossed his steed’s bridle to Planchet, and muffling himself snugly in his coat, vanished into the darkness. He was not out of sight before Planchet, shivering with cold and eager to thaw out, made for the hovel, which looked like a typical suburban tavern, and knocked loudly at the door.

  Meanwhile D’Artagnan took a side path and presently reached Saint-Cloud. There, instead of following the main street of the village, he turned behind the château, found a tiny lane, and in a few minutes reached the lodge which, the note had said, stood “at right angles to the mansion of Monsieur d’Estrées.”

  It was very bleak and stood in a very lonely spot. On one side the outer wall of the mansion loomed high above the lane; on the other a tall hedge screened off a small garden at the end of which stood a shabby hut. D’Artagnan, having reached the place appointed, waited; having received no instructions about announcing his presence, he took up his stand between hedge and wall. All was silence, an eerie silence that made him feel a hundred leagues from the capital. He glanced carefully about him, then leaned against the hedge, staring across the garden and beyond the lodge at the dense fog that swathed the mysterious immensity of Paris. Faintly, out of the shadowy void, he could distinguish a few lights, so many stars twinkling faintly over Sodom and Gomorrah.…

  Dismal though the prospect was, D’Artagnan found everything to his taste; dark though the night, his ideas were roseate and opaque, they glimmered diaphanous through the shadows. Presently the chimes of the church of Saint-Cloud boomed the hour of ten. As D’Artagnan counted the strokes, happy and expectant as he was, he could not help feeling how lugubriously this sonorous bronze voice echoed across the unfriendly night. At the last stroke, his heart racing within him, he stared up at the lodge, all the windows of which were shuttered save one on the first floor. A dim light shone through this window, silvering the foliage of a clump of linden trees that rose, thick and powdery, beyond the garden. His eyes fixed on this light, D’Artagnan thrilled at the thought that within this cheerful room Madame Bonacieux awaited him.

  Lost in charmed anticipation, D’Artagnan waited blithely for a half-hour, staring up at one part of the ceiling, which was clearly visible, admiring its gilded mouldings, and speculating how lavish the apartment might be. The belfry of Saint-Cloud sounded the half-hour.

  This time quite unconsciously D’Artagnan shuddered. Perhaps he was beginning to feel the cold and mistook a wholly physical sensation for a mental impression. Suddenly he decided that he had made a mistake. Doubtless in his eagerness he had misread his instructions and his appointment was for eleven o’clock. Stealthily he drew close to the window and, thanks to a faint ray of light, managed to read his letter again. He had not been mistaken, the appointment was for ten o’clock.

  By now somewhat uneasy at the silence and loneliness, he returned to hi
s post. Eleven o’clock struck.

  Now he thought fearfully that something might have happened to Madame Bonacieux. Nervously he clapped his hands three times, the usual signal of lovers, but there was no answer, not even an echo. Somewhat annoyed, he decided that his inamorata had perhaps fallen asleep while waiting for him. He approached the wall and attempted to scale it but it had been recently plastered; he could obtain no hold on it and he broke several fingernails in the effort. Looking about at a loss, he saw the trees again, shimmering in the light from the room above; perhaps by climbing the tallest of them he could look into the room. The tree offered no difficulty; after all, D’Artagnan was only twenty and his schoolboy habits were still fresh. Swift as a squirrel, he scurried from branch to branch; in a few moments his keen gaze enjoyed an unobstructed view into the lodge. The sight that greeted him sent a cold shiver through his body: he had to hug the branch on which he perched to keep himself from falling.

  Straining his eyes to gaze through a perfectly transparent window, D’Artagnan was horrified at the scene he beheld. The mild, subdued light of the lamp, shining steadfastly, revealed a scene of frightful disorder. One window was broken … the door to the room had been forced and, smashed in, hung limply on its swollen hinges … a table, obviously set for supper, lay overturned, its four legs gaping … the floor was strewn with fragments of glass and crushed fruits.… There could be no doubt of it, the room had witnessed a violent, desperate struggle; D’Artagnan even thought he detected shreds of clothing amid this grotesque disorder and traces of blood on tablecloth and curtains.

  Aghast, D’Artagnan climbed down from his point of vantage, his heart thumping against his ribs. He must find further clues, he must discover what had happened by examining everything about him, coolly and scrupulously as a judge. The soft light still glimmered across the cold dark shadows. Looking about him, D’Artagnan noticed that the ground underfoot seemed to have been trampled upon. There were marks of carriage wheels, of horses’ hoofs and of men’s footsteps. Obviously the carriage had driven in from the direction of Paris and, describing a circle, driven off again toward the city. Or vice-versa. At all events its wheels had left no trace in the damp earth beyond the lodge.