The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  “Many, many thanks, Monsieur Bonacieux,” D’Artagnan said as he drained his glass. “I am much obliged. Now I shall go up to my place and have Planchet brush my boots. When he is done I will send him down to you to look after your shoes and stockings if you like. One good turn deserves another.”

  With which he left the haberdasher somewhat dazed by their singular parting and more than a little nervous that he had perhaps been hoisted by his own petard. At the top of the stairs D’Artagnan found Planchet plunged in abject confusion.

  “Ah, Monsieur,” the lackey wailed, “we are in for still more trouble. It never rains but it pours! I was wondering when you would come home.”

  “What is the matter?”

  “I will give you a hundred guesses, Monsieur, a thousand, if necessary. Imagine who called on you while you were away?”

  “When?”

  “Half an hour ago, Monsieur, when you were with Monsieur de Tréville.”

  “Well, who? Speak up, man.”

  “Monsieur de Cavois!”

  “Monsieur de Cavois?”

  “In person!”

  “The Captain of His Eminence’s Guards?”

  “Himself!”

  “Did he come to arrest me?”

  “I couldn’t quite tell, Monsieur, but I suspect so, in spite of his wheedling manners.”

  “So he was pleasant, eh?”

  “Sweet as a nut, Monsieur. He was honey dripping from the comb.”

  “You don’t say so!”

  “I do indeed, Monsieur. He told me he came at the express command of His Eminence to offer you His Eminence’s compliments and beg you to proceed with him to wait upon His Eminence.”

  “What did you say, Planchet?”

  “I answered that it was impossible because you were not at home, as he could see for himself.”

  “What did he say then?”

  “He said you should not fail to call on him in the course of the day. And he whispered this, Monsieur, very polite and very mysterious, too!”

  Planchet stopped, nursing his dramatic effect.

  “Well, what, lad?”

  “He whispered: “Tell your master that His Eminence is very well disposed toward him and that his fortune may perhaps depend upon this interview.’ ”

  D’Artagnan smiled:

  “That kind of trap seems too clumsy to be of the Cardinal’s making.”

  “You know I saw right through it myself, Monsieur. I said that you would be desperately disappointed on your return.”

  Monsieur de Cavois had then asked Planchet where his master had gone; the lackey had volunteered the information that D’Artagnan had set off for Troyes in Champagne the evening before.

  “Planchet, my friend, you are worth your weight in gold!” D’Artagnan said, chuckling.

  “Well, Monsieur, you see it’s like this … I thought that if you really did want to see Monsieur de Cavois, you could always put me in the wrong by saying you had not left.… In that case, I would be the one caught in a lie … but I’m no gentleman, Monsieur, so I can lie now and then and be damned to the consequences.…”

  “No, no, Planchet, don’t worry: your reputation as a truthful man remains intact!” D’Artagnan smiled, then briskly: “We are leaving town in a quarter of an hour,” he announced.

  “God bless me, I was on the point of giving Monsieur just that advice,” the lackey said, slapping his hip. “But without seeming too curious, might I ask Monsieur where we are off to?”

  “You said I had gone to Champagne; we will therefore set off in the opposite direction. Remember, I should like to find out what has happened to Athos, Porthos and Aramis; and I am sure you would like news of Grimaud, Mousqueton and Bazin.”

  “Of course, Monsieur, I am ready to leave at any moment. If I may say so, Monsieur, I think the air of the provinces will be a bit healthier for us in the next few days.”

  “Right you are, Planchet, pack up and off we go! I shall leave the house casually, my hands in my pockets, so that nobody suspects anything. Meet me at the barracks.” D’Artagnan recalling Planchet’s misgivings the night before, added generously: “By the by, Planchet, you were certainly right about the landlord. That haberdasher seems to me to be one of the vilest specimens of humanity I have ever encountered.”

  “Well, Monsieur, even if I say it who shouldn’t, I can tell a man’s nature by his face, ay, that I can.…”

  D’Artagnan sauntered out, as arranged, and to make assurance doubly sure, visited the lodgings of his three friends. There were no tidings of them or messages anywhere, except that chez Aramis, D’Artagnan found a letter of signal calligraphy and balsam redolence. Arriving at the Hôtel des Grades before Planchet, D’Artagnan went to the stables and saddled his own horse. Ten minutes later his lackey arrived, bearing his portmanteau.

  “Capital!” D’Artagnan exclaimed. “Now saddle the three other horses.”

  “Does Monsieur think we shall travel faster with three extra horses?” Planchet’s expression was a picture of shrewdness.

  “No, my witty friend,” D’Artagnan replied, “but if we have five horses the three musketeers can ride home, provided we find them alive.”

  “I have my doubts, Monsieur, but God’s mercy is boundless!”

  “Amen,” said D’Artagnan as he leaped into his saddle. And they parted at the gate of the Hôtel des Gardes, one to leave town by the Porte de La Villette, the other by the Porte de Montmartre, having arranged to meet beyond Saint-Denis, a piece of strategy which they punctually carried out with the most fortunate results. Together D’Artagnan and Planchet entered Pierrefitte.

  Planchet was admittedly more daring in the daytime than after nightfall. But his native caution never forsook him an instant; having forgotten no incident of their first journey, he looked upon everyone they met on the road as an enemy. Accordingly he kept taking off his hat and holding it in his hand, at which D’Artagnan repeatedly reprimanded him with some asperity, for such excessive politeness might well cause Planchet to be taken as the lackey of a man of no consequence. At all events, whether the people they met were touched by Planchet’s urbanity or whether this time no one lay in ambush for them, the two travelers arrived at Chantilly without mishap and repaired to the inn of the Grand Saint-Martin, where they had put up on their previous journey.

  The host, impressed by a client with three remounts, advanced respectfully to greet them on the threshold. As they had already traveled eleven leagues, D’Artagnan considered it advisable to stop awhile at the inn even though Porthos were not there; he also deemed it prudent not to ask at once what had happened to the portly musketeer. Without asking any questions whatever D’Artagnan dismounted, left his lackey to attend to the horses and entered a small private room. Ordering the best wine and heartiest meal the house could afford, he confirmed the landlord’s favorable impression, and was served with miraculous celerity.

  The Regiment of Guards was known to be recruited from among the noblest gentlemen of the realm and, flanked by a lackey and three extra horses—magnificent nags they were, too—D’Artagnan cut a considerable swath. His uniform might be simple and anonymous but his air and his retinue compelled a certain respect. The landlord therefore served him in person and D’Artagnan, observing this attention, ordered him to bring two glasses.

  “By my faith, my dear host,” he paused a moment to fill both glasses, “By my faith, I ordered your best wine; if you have disappointed me, you shall suffer for it in the exact measure in which you have sinned. I hate to drink alone; you shall therefore join me; let us clink glasses and drink to each other’s health. Further, to drink a toast that can hurt nobody’s feelings, let us drink to the prosperity of your establishment.”

  “Monsieur does me much honor and I thank you most sincerely for your kind wishes.”

  “No, my dear host, make no mistake; there is probably more selfishness in my toast than you imagine. The only inns where guests are well received are the prosperous ones; other place
s, shabby and down at heels, make a gust the victim of his host’s embarrassments. God preserve me from them!” The landlord bowed. “I travel a great deal, you know, especially on this road, and I should like to see all innkeepers coining money!”

  “Indeed yes, Monsieur, if I am not mistaken I have had the honor of seeing you before.”

  “That is very likely: I have come through Chantilly at least ten times and stopped at your place at least four times or five. As a matter of fact I was last here some ten or twelve days ago, with some friends of mine, some musketeers.”

  “Really, Monsieur!”

  “Yes. One of them, a somewhat stout gentleman, had a slight argument with a man totally unknown to any of us, who picked some kind of a quarrel with him.”

  “Why, yes, of course, Monsieur, I recall the incident. Monsieur is doubtless referring to Monsieur Porthos?”

  “Exactly; he was traveling with us. Come, my dear host, tell me frankly: has anything untoward befallen Monsieur Porthos? He was a very cheerful traveling companion.”

  “Monsieur must have observed that Monsieur Porthos was prevented from continuing his journey.”

  “True: he promised to join us at Beauvais and we haven’t seen him since.”

  “He did us the honor of remaining here, Monsieur.”

  “What? He is still here?”

  “Ay, Monsieur, under this very roof. Indeed, I must confess to Monsieur that we are somewhat worried—”

  “Worried about what—?”

  “About certain expenses, Monsieur. Begging your pardon, Monsieur Porthos is a lavish gentleman.”

  “Well, if he has run up a bill, my dear landlord, he is certainly in a position to pay his score!”

  “Monsieur’s words are a solace to my soul!” The host sighed. “You see we advanced considerable cash to Monsieur Porthos and this very morning the surgeon swore that if Monsieur didn’t pay him he would hold me responsible. Unfortunately it was I who sent for him!”

  “Monsieur Porthos is wounded, then?”

  “That I cannot tell!”

  “What do you mean? Surely you of all people should know—?”

  “Ay, Monsieur, men in my position cannot tell all they know. We must observe a landlordly discretion. And when the owner of an inn is told that his ears are answerable for what his tongue might say—”

  “Tell me, may I see Monsieur Porthos?”

  “Certainly, Monsieur; just take the stairs, walk up one flight and knock at the door of Number One. But be sure to say who you are.”

  “Why so?”

  “Well, Monsieur, something terrible might happen to you.”

  “What, for instance?”

  “Monsieur Porthos might easily mistake you for one of my staff. God help us, he might lose his temper and spit you like a fowl or blow your brains out.”

  “What on earth have you done to him?”

  “We simply asked him for money, Monsieur.”

  “The devil you say! Now I understand everything. Don’t you realize that when Monsieur Porthos is out of funds, any reference to money is apt to anger him?”

  “We thought so too, Monsieur. But you see, we run this house on strictly businesslike lines, Monsieur; we make our bills out day by day and present them to our guests every Saturday. Maybe we chose the wrong moment to approach Monsieur Porthos. At any rate he flew into a towering rage and committed us to all the devils of hell. To be sure he had been gambling the night before.”

  “Gambling, eh? And with whom?”

  “Good Lord, Monsieur, how can I tell? There was a gentleman in my inn, a very pretty gentleman indeed, but how should I know who he was? Anyhow, Monsieur, Porthos challenged him to a game of lansquenet.”

  “And I suppose poor Porthos lost all his money!”

  “Not only his money, Monsieur, but even his horse. You see, when the nobleman was about to leave, I spied his lackey saddling the horse Monsieur Porthos had ridden. My wife and I told the lackey he was wrong but he said: ‘Mind your own business, this horse belongs to us.’ Imagine, Monsieur.”

  “Well, what happened next?”

  The landlord proceeded to unfold his tale of woe. Having gone to inform Monsieur Porthos that his horse was being taken away, he was greeted with a volley of oaths for his pains. How dared a swine of a landlord doubt the word of a gentleman’s lackey? How dared he venture to doubt an honorable guest? If the stranger had said that the horse was his, his it was and he could take it wherever he pleased. (“How typical of Porthos!” D’Artagnan murmured.) The landlord went on to explain that he soon realized no money was forthcoming; he had therefore hoped that Monsieur Porthos would at least condescend to honor a rival inn, At the Sign of the Golden Eagle, with his patronage. But no, Monsieur Porthos replied that the Grand Saint-Martin was very comfortable and that he intended to remain there. This statement was too flattering for the host to dispute it; he therefore merely suggested that Monsieur Porthos vacate Room Number One, the handsomest in the hostelry, and move to a small but very comfortable room on the third floor. To this Monsieur Porthos replied that he was expecting his mistress to arrive at any moment and, since she was one of the greatest ladies at court, Monsieur Porthos intended to continue to occupy Room Number One because any other apartment would be unbefitting the lady and dishonoring to the hostelry of the Grand Saint-Martin, let alone to its landlord. While recognizing the truth and pith of the valid argument Monsieur Porthos advanced, mine host undertook to argue, whereupon Monsieur Porthos, brooking no discussion, seized a pistol which lay close at hand and delivered an ultimatum. He would, he swore, blow out the brains of anyone who rashly took it upon himself to meddle with affairs that concerned him, Monsieur Porthos, alone. Ever since, the landlord concluded, no one save the lackey, Mousqueton, dared enter Room Number One.

  “So Mousqueton is here too?”

  “Ay, Monsieur! five days after you left, the lackey returned, sullen and somewhat the worse for wear. It seems his journey did not agree with him. To tell you the truth, Monsieur, that lackey is considerably nimbler and spryer than his master. For the sake of Monsieur Porthos, he turns everything topsy-turvy; you see, Monsieur, God help us, he commandeers things right and left. Instead of waiting for us to refuse him something, he goes ahead and pinches it!”

  “Ay, Mousqueton has always proved both enterprising and devoted to his master.”

  “Yes, Monsieur, I dare say; but if I found such enterprise and devotion four times a year, I would go bankrupt.”

  “Not at all; Porthos will pay you.”

  The landlord cleared his throat and heaved a sigh of doubt.

  “My dear host, Monsieur Porthos is protected by an illustrious lady who would not permit him to languish here for the mere pittance of a week’s rent.”

  “Well, Monsieur, if Monsieur will suffer me to speak freely—”

  “Of course, my good man—”

  “Well then, I will tell Monsieur not only what I surmise but what I know—”

  “Go ahead, landlord—”

  “Begging your pardon, Monsieur, this illustrious lady—”

  “Yes—?”

  “—this illustrious lady is no illustrious lady, Monsieur.”

  “What in the world do you mean?”

  “I mean the illustrious lady—”

  “Speak up, man!”

  “The illustrious lady—hm!—may I count upon Monsieur’s confidence—?”

  “Of course; I give you my word as a gentleman—”

  “Well, Monsieur, I know the lady in question—”

  “You know her—?”

  “Well, Monsieur, you see it was like this … Monsieur Porthos gave us a note addressed to his Duchess … we were meant to post the letter.… The valet had not arrived, Monsieur, so we had to do the needful because Monsieur Porthos was confined to his room—”

  “Quite so. What then?”

  “We did not post the letter, Monsieur, for the mails are not very safe. So I took the liberty of using one of
my grooms who was going to Paris and I told him to deliver the letter himself. I was following the instructions of Monsieur Porthos, was I not? He was so insistent about the letter reaching its addressee!”

  “I dare say; go on.”

  “Well, Monsieur, do you know who the illustrious lady is?”

  “No, my friend, I have merely heard Monsieur Porthos mention her casually—”

  “Monsieur, begging your pardon, she is no duchess; she is the wife of an aged attorney at the Chätelet. Her name is Coquenard and though at least fifty she plays the jealous coquette. When I first saw the letter, Monsieur, I thought it odd that a duchess lived in the Rue aux Ours!”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Well, Monsieur, when the old lady received the letter, she flew into a great rage. She hinted that Monsieur Porthos was a trifler and had been wounded in a duel over a woman.”

  “So he was wounded, eh?”

  “God help us, what have I said?”

  “You said that Monsieur Porthos was wounded.”

  “Forgive me, Monsieur, I am all too indiscreet. Monsieur Porthos forbade me to mention it.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, Monsieur, you see it happened like this. Monsieur Porthos boasted about riddling the stranger like a sieve but it was the stranger who pinked him, for all his boasting. Now you know what a proud gentleman Monsieur Porthos is, and how vainglorious he is, if I may say so, save in respect to his Duchess. Would you believe it, Monsieur, he wrote to Madame Coquenard all about his adventure and his gory wound but he forbids anyone else to mention it!”

  “So he’s in bed with a wound, eh, landlord?”

  “A masterly wound it is, Monsieur; your friend is certainly hard to kill. God bless us.”

  “You saw the duel?”

  “Ay, Monsieur, that I did. I was curious, that I was; and I saw the whole thing without the gentlemen knowing I was watching.”

  “Tell me what happened, landlord.”

  “Well, Monsieur, it was soon over, I warrant you. They fell into guard and before Monsieur Porthos could say knife, the stranger put three inches of steel in his chest … Monsieur Porthos fell back with a crash … the other gentleman pressed his swordpoint delicately to the throat of Monsieur Porthos and Monsieur Porthos gave in.… When the gentleman insisted on knowing whom he had bested and Monsieur Porthos told his name, he helped Monsieur Porthos back to the inn, apologized for having mistaken Monsieur Porthos for a certain Monsieur D’Artagnan, and rode away.”