The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  “How so, if he loved her?”

  “Patience, D’Artagnan and you shall see!” Athos gulped down the contents of half his glass. “My friend took her to his château and made her the first lady of the province and, to do her justice, she acquitted herself brilliantly of her rank.”

  “What happened then?” D’Artagnan asked.

  “One day my friend was out hunting in the woods with his wife.” Athos lowered his voice and spoke very rapidly. “She fell from her horse and fainted. The Count rushed to help her and, as she had difficulty in breathing, he slashed her bodice with his dagger, baring her throat and shoulders.” Suddenly Athos burst into shrill, forced peals of laughter. “And guess what he found on her right shoulder?” he concluded.

  “How could I know? Tell me, if you will.”

  “A fleur-de-lis,” said Athos, “yes, a fleur-de-lis. She had been branded by the Royal Executioner.” And Athos drained his glass at one gulp.

  “How horrible!” cried D’Artagnan, “I can’t believe it!”

  “Gospel truth, I swear it. That angel my friend adored was a fiend; he discovered not only that she was a thief but that she had stolen the sacred vessels from a church.”

  “And what did your friend do?”

  “He was a great nobleman, D’Artagnan; he enjoyed the right of petty and superior justice on his own domain. He tore her clothes to pieces, tied her hands behind her back, and hanged her to a tree.”

  “Good God, Athos, a murder!”

  “Exactly: a murder, no less!” Athos turned pale as a corpse. “But I seem to have no wine,” he added hastily, and, seizing the last remaining bottle by the neck, he drained it at a single draught as though it were an ordinary wineglass. Then he buried his head between his hands while D’Artagnan gazed at him, mute and horror-stricken. For a moment neither spoke. Presently Athos rose to his feet and forgetting to keep up the fiction of his friend the nobleman:

  “That cured me of beautiful, poetical and loving women!” he wound up. “May God grant you the same enlightenment but less painfully! Come let us drink up.”

  “So the Comtesse is dead?” D’Artagnan stammered.

  “Of course, dead as a doornail. But give me your glass, D’Artagnan. Oh, I see! no more wine! Well, have some ham then, fellow my lad, we really can’t drink any more.”

  “What about her brother?” D’Artagnan asked timidly.

  “Her brother?”

  “Yes, the priest?”

  “Oh, I made inquiries about him in order to have him hanged too. But he stole a march on me. He had left his curacy just the day before.”

  “Was it ever discovered who the wretch was?”

  “Oh, he was probably the first lover and the accomplice of that angel of beauty, a worthy fellow who had pretended to be a priest in order to marry off his mistress and thus provide for her future. I trust he has been hanged, drawn and quartered since.”

  “My God, what a ghastly tale!” D’Artagnan exclaimed, dazed by the relation of this gruesome adventure.

  “Come, try some of this ham, D’Artagnan; it is delicious,” Athos said, cutting a slice which he placed on the young man’s plate. “What a pity there were not four more such hams in the cellar; then I might have downed fifty bottles more!”

  D’Artagnan could endure this conversation no longer; it would have driven him crazy. Allowing his head to sink between his hands and screening his eyes, he pretended to fall asleep.

  “These young fellows don’t know how to drink nowadays,” Athos said, looking at him pityingly, “yet this lad is one of the stoutest and best!”

  XXVIII

  THE RETURN

  D’Artagnan was astounded by the recital of this terrible secret. More than one fact about this partial revelation seemed to him obscure. It had been made by a totally drunken man to one who was only half drunk, yet despite the vagueness which the fumes of two or three bottles of Burgundy impart to the brain, D’Artagnan, awaking the next morning, could recall word for word everything Athos had said. It was as though, while Athos spoke, sentence by sentence had been impressed upon D’Artagnan’s memory. The doubts D’Artagnan entertained only increased his eagerness to arrive at a certainty. Accordingly he repaired to his friend’s room, firmly resolved to renew the conversation of the evening before. But he found Athos fully himself again, in other words the shrewdest and most impenetrable of men. After they had exchanged a hearty handshake, the musketeer, anticipating D’Artagnan, broached the matter first.

  “I was very drunk yesterday, my dear D’Artagnan,” he confessed. “I could tell it this morning from the feel of my tongue which was still very thick and from the beat of my pulse which was still very fast. I wager I must have talked an awful lot of nonsense.”

  And he gazed at D’Artagnan with an earnestness that embarrassed our Gascon.

  “No, Athos, I don’t think so. As I remember you said nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Well, you surprise me very much. I thought I had told you a most harrowing tale!”

  And again Athos looked at the other as though to read his innermost thoughts.

  “Upon my word, I must have been even drunker than you, Athos, for I remember nothing.”

  Athos was not taken in.

  “You cannot have failed to notice how every man has his particular kind of drunkenness, sad or gay. In my own case, wine engenders melancholy and when I am in my cups I am possessed by a mania to tell all the lugubrious tales my foolish nurse ever crammed into my brain. That is a failing of mine, a serious one I admit; but apart from that, I drink pretty well.”

  Athos spoke so very naturally that D’Artagnan’s conviction was shaken. Anxious to ascertain the truth D’Artagnan ventured:

  “Oh, so that’s it! Now I remember dimly as though it was a dream; we spoke of people being hanged, didn’t we?”

  “There, you see how it is!” Athos replied, growing still paler and forcing a laugh. “I was sure of it: the hanging of people is my particular nightmare, the obsession of Athos drunk.”

  “I think you told me something about—wait, my memory seems to be returning—yes, you told me about a woman—”

  “Ay, that is it!” Athos answered, turning almost livid. “I must have spun my favorite yarn about the blonde woman. When I tell that one, I am indeed dead drunk.”

  “You told me the story of a tall blonde woman who was very beautiful, who had extraordinary blue eyes, and …”

  “And who was hanged!”

  “Precisely! She was hanged by her husband who was a nobleman of your acquaintance,” D’Artagnan supplied, looking intently at Athos.

  “Bah, now you see how a drunken man can compromise a friend when he does not know what he is saying,” Athos remarked, shrugging his shoulders as though he considered himself an object of pity. “I certainly will never get drunk again, D’Artagnan; it is really a ghastly habit.”

  D’Artagnan made no comment. Then changing the subject suddenly Athos said: “By the way, I must thank you for the horse you brought me.”

  “You like it, eh?”

  “Yes, but it is no horse for hard work.”

  “You’re mistaken there, Athos, I rode him almost ten leagues in less than an hour and a half and he looked as though he had merely walked once around the Place Saint-Sulpice.”

  “Heavens, you begin to awaken my regrets.”

  “Regrets?”

  “Yes, D’Artagnan. You see, I got rid of that horse.”

  “How?”

  “Let me explain, my friend. Here are the simple facts. I got up this morning at six o’clock. You were sleeping like a log and I did not know what to do with myself. I was still stupefied by last night’s debauch. As I went into the common room I heard a guest, an Englishman, haggling with a horse-dealer over a mount. (His own died yesterday from a stroke.) I drew near and, finding that he was offering a hundred pistoles for a fine burned-chestnut nag:

  “ ‘Look you, Monsieur,’ I said, ‘I too have a horse for
sale.’

  “ ‘And a very handsome horse at that, Monsieur,’ he replied. ‘I saw him yesterday; your friend’s lackey was walking him.’

  “ ‘Do you consider him worth a hundred pistoles?’ I asked.

  “ ‘Certainly. Will you sell him to me at that price?’

  “ ‘Certainly not! But I will play with you for him.’

  “ ‘Play at what?’

  “ ‘At dice.’ ”

  No sooner said than done, Athos told an increasingly apprehensive D’Artagnan. The Englishman, it seemed, had agreed at once.

  “I lost the horse,” Athos confessed, “but I did win back the saddle.” And as D’Artagnan looked somewhat put out: “Are you annoyed?” he asked candidly.

  “Yes, I admit I am, Athos. That horse was to have made us conspicuous on the battlefield; it was an identification, a pledge and a remembrance. Honestly, Athos, you were wrong to gamble it away.”

  “Well, my friend, put yourself in my place. I was bored to death, and anyhow, I swear I do not like English horses. Besides, if it is merely a question of being recognized by someone, the saddle will surely suffice; it is certainly conspicuous enough! As for the horse, we can find some excuse for explaining away its disappearance. What the devil, a horse is mortal; suppose mine had glanders or the farcy.”

  D’Artagnan looked as glum as ever.

  “I am much vexed that you should set such store by horseflesh, my friend, because I am not yet at the end of my story.”

  “What else have you done, Athos?”

  “After losing my horse with a throw of nine against a ten—rotten luck, eh?—I was inspired to stake yours. A capital idea, don’t you think?”

  “An idea perhaps, but surely you did not put it into execution?”

  “Of course I did!”

  “Confound it!” D’Artagnan said, greatly disturbed.

  “What then?”

  “I threw the dice and I lost.”

  “You lost my horse?”

  “I lost your horse with a throw of seven against the Englishman’s eight. Short of one point! You know the saying.”

  “Athos, I vow you have taken leave of your senses.”

  “That is what you should have told me yesterday, my dear fellow, when I was spinning all those foolish yarns. This morning it is too late for such strictures. So to be frank, D’Artagnan, I lost your horse with all his harness, accoutrement and equipment.”

  “But this is ghastly!”

  “Wait, lad, you have not heard all. You know I would make a very competent gambler if I was not so stubborn; but I get stubborn, just as when I drink. So I got stubborn again …”

  “But what could you wager? You had nothing left?”

  “On the contrary, my friend, we still had that diamond sparkling on your finger. I noticed it yesterday and thought: what a valuable piece!”

  Panic-stricken, D’Artagnan fumbled for his ring.

  “My diamond!” he gasped.

  “Precisely,” Athos went on suavely. “And since I am a connoisseur, having owned quite a few myself, I estimated it at one thousand pistoles.”

  D’Artagnan, overcome with fright, said:

  “Merciful Heavens! I do hope you did not mention my diamond!”

  “On the contrary, my friend. You must understand that your diamond was now our only resource. With it I might win back our horses and our harnesses and even enough cash to get us home.”

  “Athos, I am appalled; I shudder!”

  “Well, I mentioned your diamond to the English gentleman who, it appears, had noticed it too. What the devil, my lad, you simply cannot walk around with a star from Heaven on your finger and expect no one to notice it. That would be ludicrous.”

  “Get on, Athos, get on, my friend, I implore you. I swear your sangfroid and phlegm are driving me mad.”

  “This is what happened: we divided the diamond into ten parts, each worth one hundred pistoles.”

  “Bah!” D’Artagnan said, anger seizing him as violently as ever Minerva seized Achilles by the hair in the Iliad, “You are badgering me in jest. You want to make me lose my Gascon temper.”

  “Mordieu, I have never been less in a mood for jesting. I should have liked to see you in my place. What in God’s name would you have done? Here I had been out of circulation for a whole fortnight; I had not seen a human face except Grimaud’s which I know by heart; my sole consolation was our host’s wine—excellent wine, I admit—for it provided me with the handsomest possible means of stultification and stupefaction.”

  “That was no reason for staking my diamond,” D’Artagnan protested, clenching his fists in a nervous spasm.

  “Do hear me out,” Athos replied. “Remember: we had ten parts of the diamond to gamble for, each worth one hundred pistoles. We agreed that we would play these ten points and then there was to be an end to it. At the thirteenth throw, I had lost everything! Number thirteen has always been fatal; it was on July thirteenth that I—”

  “God’s body!” cried D’Artagnan, rising angrily from the table. Today’s story erased from his memory all trace of the tragic story he had heard the night before. “I—”

  “Patience, my friend,” Athos counseled. “Mine was a sound plan. That Englishman was a crackpot or at least an eccentric like many of his race. I saw him conversing with Grimaud two mornings ago; and Grimaud immediately reported back to me that the Milord wished to attach him to his household. What could I do, knowing all this, but set up Grimaud, my silent Grimaud, as a stake divided into ten parts, each worth one hundred pistoles.”

  Vexed though he was, D’Artagnan could not help laughing at the comicality of the situation:

  “You used Grimaud as a stake?” he asked incredulously, roaring with laughter.

  “Yes,” Athos pursued nonchalantly, “and with the ten parts of Grimaud, who is not worth a decatoon in toto, I won back your diamond. Now, tell me if persistence is not a lofty virtue?”

  Somewhat relieved, D’Artagnan gave free run to his mirth:

  “Very funny!” he said. “I haven’t heard as amusing a story in years!”

  “You may well imagine that finding my luck turning, I immediately staked the diamond again.”

  “The devil you did!” said D’Artagnan glowering once more.

  “I won back your harness, I won back my own harness, I won back my horse, then I lost my horse again. To cut a long story short, I emerged with your harness and mine and that’s where we stand now. I must say I had made a superb throw, so I let it go at that and left off.”

  D’Artagnan breathed as though the weight of the entire hostelry had been lifted off his chest.

  “My diamond is still safe then?” he asked timidly.

  “Safe as houses, my dear fellow. And we still have the harnesses of your Bucephalus and mine.”

  “But of what use can our harnesses be without horses?”

  “D’Artagnan, I have an idea about that problem.”

  “Athos, you make me shudder.”

  “Look here, you haven’t gambled for a long time, have you?”

  “No, I have not, and I swear I have no desire to do so.”

  “Ah, D’Artagnan, no man must ever swear to anything lest he prove forsworn.”

  “What do you propose, Athos?”

  “Luckily my Englishman and his companion are still here. I noticed that he seemed very regretful about the harnesses; you seem to set great store by your horse. If I were you, I would stake the harness you possess against the horse I lost for you.”

  “But surely your Englishman will not be interested in just one harness?”

  “Well, then, lad, stake the pair of them! I am not as selfish as you!”

  Despite his prudence, D’Artagnan felt the subtle influence of Athos prevailing insidiously upon him.

  “Would you really do that, Athos?” he asked, in great perplexity.

  “As I am an honest man, ay; I vow I would risk both harnesses at one throw.”

  “But having
lost both horses, I am particularly anxious to save the equipment.”

  “Stake your diamond, then!”

  “No, Athos, never; that is quite another thing. I could never do that!”

  “Devil take it, I would propose staking Planchet,” Athos said, “but that has been done already and probably the Englishman would object.”

  “Truth to tell, my dear Athos, I would prefer to stake nothing.”

  “What a pity!” Athos said coldly. “That Englishman’s pockets are bulging with pistoles. Come along, lad, try one throw; one throw is soon cast.”

  “What if I lose?”

  “You will win.”

  “But if I lose?”

  “Then you will forfeit the harnesses.”

  “Done!” said D’Artagnan recklessly. “Here goes for one throw.”

  Athos went off in search of the Englishman whom he found in the stables, viewing the harnesses with a covetous eye. The moment was auspicious. Athos was able to impose his own conditions: both harnesses against either one horse or one hundred pistoles at the winner’s choice. The Englishman, calculating rapidly, realized that the harnesses were worth a hundred and fifty pistoles apiece. He and Athos shook hands to seal the bargain.

  After the usual courtesies had been exchanged, D’Artagnan took up the dice and, with trembling hand, rolled a trey! Athos, shocked as he noted how pale his friend turned, merely remarked:

  “Ha, partner, that was a sorry throw!” and, nodding toward the Englishman: “Our adversary will have his horses fully equipped.”

  Triumphant, the Englishman did not even bother to shake the dice but threw them on the table without looking down, so certain was he of victory. D’Artagnan meanwhile turned aside to conceal his disappointment and vexation.

  “Look at that!” Athos remarked in his usual calm tones. “There’s an extraordinary throw for you. Upon my word, I’ve only seen it happen four times in my life. A pair of aces losing to a trey!”