The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  The Englishman looked down at the table, incredulous, then surprise loomed large over his features; D’Artagnan, following his glance, was overcome with pleasure.

  “Ay,” Athos continued, “only four times in my life. Once when we were playing with Monsieur de Créquy; another time at my own place in the country when I had a château; a third at Monsieur de Tréville’s, to our general amazement; and a fourth at an inn where I threw two aces, losing a hundred louis and a supper into the bargain.”

  “So, Monsieur, you have won back your horse!” the Englishman said ruefully.

  “I have indeed!”

  “And there is to be no revenge?”

  “You recollect, Monsieur, that our conditions stipulated no chance for retrieval,” Athos pointed out.

  “True, Monsieur, that was agreed upon. Your horse will be restored to your valet.”

  “One moment, Milord,” Athos broke in. “With your permission, I should very much like to have a word with my friend, here.”

  “Pray do, Monsieur.”

  Athos drew D’Artagnan aside.

  “Well, tempter, what more do you want of me? To have me throw again, I suppose.”

  “No, D’Artagnan, I just want you to think things over carefully.”

  “Think what things over?”

  “You want to take your horse back, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, you are wrong. Were I you, I would take the hundred pistoles. As you know you staked the harnesses against the horse or one hundred pistoles in cash, at your choice.”

  “I know that.”

  “Well, I would take the money.”

  “And I intend to take the horse.”

  “I repeat, you are wrong, D’Artagnan. What on earth can two of us do with but one horse? I cannot ride behind you; we would look like the two sons of Aymon in search of their brother. And surely you would not dream of humiliating me by prancing along beside me on that magnificent steed. For my part, D’Artagnan, I would not hesitate a moment; I would take the hundred pistoles. Remember we need money to get back to Paris.”

  “That horse means a great deal to me, Athos.”

  “There again you are wrong, my friend. A horse shies or slips and he suffers an injury; a horse bucks and he breaks a leg; a horse eats out of a manger in which an infected horse has eaten and he comes down with glanders. There is a horse—or rather one hundred pistoles—irremediably lost. Again, a master must feed his horse, whereas on the contrary one hundred pistoles feed their master!”

  “But how shall we get back to Paris?”

  “Quite easy! We will ride our lackeys’ horses. People can always tell by our looks that we are persons of quality.”

  “So we are to cut a shabby figure on the wretched ponies of our lackeys while Aramis and Porthos caracole on their chargers beside us?”

  “Aramis!” Athos laughed. “Porthos!” His laughter gained momentum.

  “What is so hilarious about that?” D’Artagnan inquired, completely at a loss.

  “Nothing, nothing, let us continue our argument.”

  “So your advice is—?”

  “—to take the hundred pistoles, D’Artagnan! With such a sum we can live like kings till the end of the month. We have undergone a great deal of grueling fatigue, my friend; it will do us a lot of good to relax a little.”

  “To relax! I, relax? No, no, Athos! As soon as I reach Paris, I shall go search for the beautiful and unhappy woman I love.”

  “All right, which do you think will help you most in your quest; one hundred jingling golden coins or a horse? Take the money, my friend, I repeat; take the hundred pistoles.”

  D’Artagnan needed but one reason in order to surrender and this last reason seemed convincing. Besides, by refusing to do as Athos suggested, he feared lest he appear selfish and niggardly in the eyes of his friend. He therefore acquiesced and chose the hundred pistoles which the Englishman paid out on the spot.

  Then they prepared eagerly to depart. To make their peace with the landlord, over and above the old horse Athos had given him, cost them six pistoles. D’Artagnan and his friend bestrode the nags of Planchet and Grimaud respectively, the lackeys following afoot in their wake, carrying the saddles on their heads. Ill-mounted though our friends were, they soon outpaced their lackeys, reaching Crèvecoeur long before them. From afar they sighted Aramis, seated at the window, leaning over the sill in deep melancholy and, like Sister Ann in Bluebeard, scanning the horizon.

  “Ho, Aramis!” D’Artagnan shouted. “What the devil are you doing there?”

  “So it’s you, my friends! Greetings, D’Artagnan! Good day to you Athos!” Then when they had shaken hands: “I was meditating upon the celerity with which the goods of this world leave us,” Aramis confessed. “My handsome English horse has just vanished amid a cloud of dust; he is a living image of the fragility of earthly things. All life may be summed up in three words: erat, est, fuit; ay, friends, it was, it is, and it has been!”

  “Which means—?” D’Artagnan asked, vaguely suspecting what was to come.

  “Which means that I have just made a fool’s bargain. I was swindled. I got only sixty louis for a horse that, judging by his gait, can cover five leagues an hour at an easy trot.”

  D’Artagnan and Athos burst out laughing.

  “My dear D’Artagnan,” Aramis apologized, “pray do not be too angry with me, necessity knows no law. Besides, I am the person most severely punished because that rascally horse-dealer has cheated me out of at least fifty louis. Ah, you two fellows are good managers; you ride your lackeys’ horses and have your own magnificent mounts led by hand gently and by easy stages.”

  Just then a market-cart, which had turned into the Amiens road, drew up before the inn. Grimaud and Planchet emerged, the saddles on their heads. The cart was returning empty to Paris and the two lackeys, in return for their transportation, had agreed to slake the driver’s thirst along the road.

  “What’s this? Aramis cried as he saw them arrive. “Saddles? Nothing but saddles?”

  “Don’t you understand?” Athos asked.

  “Bless me, I did just the same, my friends. Some obscure instinct made me keep my harness too! Ho, Bazin, bring my new saddle and carry it along with those Planchet and Grimaud are wearing!”

  “What about your clerics?” D’Artagnan asked. “What have you done with them?”

  “I invited them to dinner the next day,” Aramis replied, “and incidentally they have some capital wine in this inn, my friends. I did my very best to make my clerics tipsy to such effect that the Curé forbade me to doff my uniform and the Jesuit implored me to help him enlist in the musketeers.”

  “Without a thesis, eh Aramis!” D’Artagnan laughed. “I demand he be admitted without a thesis.”

  “Since then,” Aramis continued, “I have been living most agreeably. I have begun a poem in lines of one syllable, a fairly difficult task but all merit consists in overcoming difficulties. The theme is worldly, gallant and erotic. I will read you the first canto; it consists of four hundred lines and can be read in just one minute.”

  “In other words, my dear Aramis—” D’Artagnan hated poetry almost as heartily as he did Latin, “add the merit of brevity to the merit of difficulty and your work will triumph on two counts.”

  “What is more,” Aramis enthused, “my poem breathes the noblest and most irreproachable of passions. You shall hear for yourselves, my friends.”

  They chatted a few minutes about their plans.

  “So we return to Paris, eh?” Aramis exclaimed joyfully. “Bravo! I am ready at a moment’s notice. We shall join good old Porthos; that will be great fun. You can have no idea how much I have missed that great simpleton. You cannot imagine him selling his horse, no, not for a kingdom! I long to see him astride his magnificent beast, his buttocks firmly ensconced in his sumptuous saddle. I am certain he will look like the Great Mogul.”

  D’Artagnan and Athos stayed an ho
ur to rest their horses; Aramis settled his bill and put Bazin in the cart with his colleagues. And so they set forth to join Porthos.

  They found him up and about, much less pale than he had been on D’Artagnan’s first visit. Porthos was seated at a table which, though he was alone, was set for four. The dinner consisted of meats succulently dressed, of choice wines and of superb fruits.

  “Ha, by God!” he exclaimed, rising to greet them. “Your arrival is wonderfully timed, gentlemen. I was just beginning with soup; you must dine with me.”

  “Well, Porthos, Mousqueton certainly did not lasso such bottles as these!” D’Artagnan said admiringly. “And unless my eyes mistake me, I see a crisply larded fricandeau and a filet of beef—”

  “I am recuperating, I have to build myself up,” Porthos explained. “Nothing can weaken a man more than these damned sprains. Have you ever sprained your knee, Athos?”

  “No, I have not. But I remember a sword-thrust I received in our skirmish in the Rue Férou. For a fortnight it had exactly the same effect on me as your sprain has on you.”

  “Surely this dinner was not intended for you alone, Porthos, was it?” Aramis inquired.

  “No, Aramis, I was expecting several gentlemen of the neighborhood who have just sent word to me that they cannot come. You two shall take their places and I shall lose nothing by the exchange. Ho, Mousqueton, bring up some chairs and double the number of bottles.”

  After ten minutes of hearty eating, suddenly Athos asked: “Do you know what we are eating here?”

  “I,” said D’Artagnan, “am eating veau piqué aux cardons et à la moelle and I must confess I have always enjoyed veal stuffed with prawns and marrow.”

  “I,” said Porthos, “am enjoying some filets d’agneau, the best lamb I have tasted in many moons.”

  “I,” said Aramis, “am savoring blanc de volaille; a more succulent breast of chicken I never tasted.”

  “You’re all mistaken, gentlemen,” Athos announced gravely, “you are eating horseflesh.”

  “What?—We are eating what?” D’Artagnan asked in bewilderment.

  “Horseflesh!” Aramis repeated in disgust.

  Porthos alone made no reply.

  “Ay, Porthos, horseflesh, that’s what we’re eating, isn’t it?” Athos went on. “And the saddle as well, probably.”

  “No, gentlemen, I kept the harness,” Porthos confessed.

  “Upon my word,” Aramis declared, “we are all alike. Any one might think we had tipped each other the wink to dispose of our horses!”

  “Ah well!” Porthos sighed. “That horse made my visitors ashamed of theirs and I could not bear to humiliate them.”

  “And I suppose your duchess is still taking the waters, too, eh, Porthos?” D’Artagnan asked.

  “Yes, unfortunately she is.” Porthos looked around the table. “I had to get rid of the horse you gave me, D’Artagnan. As a matter of fact the Governor of the province—one of the guests I expected to dinner this evening—took a fancy to my horse so I gave it away.”

  “You gave it away?”

  “God help us, yes, gave is the word. That animal was worth at least one hundred and fifty louis but the niggardly fellow would only pay me eighty.”

  “Without the saddle?” Aramis asked. “Yes, without the saddle.”

  “You will observe, gentlemen,” Athos declared, “that our friend Porthos still made the best bargain of any of us.”

  A roar of laughter rose vociferously to the rafters, leaving poor Porthos utterly at a loss; but when the reason for the general hilarity was made clear to him, he joined in noisily as usual.

  “Well, thank Heaven we are all in funds!” D’Artagnan said.

  “Not I,” Athos replied. “I found the Spanish wine at the inn where Aramis was staying so excellent that I forwarded six hampers of it—sixty bottles in all—in the cart with our lackeys. This has considerably depleted my resources.”

  “Don’t count on me!” Aramis warned. “You must realize that I have given practically my last sou to the church of Montdidier and to the Jesuits of Amiens. Remember too that I have assumed obligations which I must keep, namely, Masses to be said for myself and for you, too, gentlemen. I am confident these will prove to be of the greatest benefit to us.”

  “As for me,” said Porthos, “don’t you suppose my sprain cost me a considerable sum? Don’t forget either that Mousqueton was wounded. I had to call in the surgeon twice a day and he charged me double because that idiot of a Mousqueton had managed to get himself shot in that portion of his anatomy which is usually shown only to apothecaries. I warned the lad roundly never to get himself wounded there again.”

  “Indeed, indeed!” said Athos, exchanging a smile with D’Artagnan and Aramis, “I see you behaved most generously toward the poor fellow. You are a good master, Porthos.”

  “In brief,” Porthos replied, “after paying my bill, I shall have only thirty crowns left at most.”

  “I, roughly a dozen pistoles,” Aramis volunteered.

  “In other words we are as rich as Croesus!” said Athos. “By the way, D’Artagnan, how much have you still left of your hundred pistoles?”

  “My hundred pistoles! Good Lord, I gave you fifty of them.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course I did, on my word as a—”

  “Oh, yes, now I remember.”

  “And I paid the innkeeper six pistoles.”

  “The scoundrel! Why on earth pay him six pistoles?”

  “You told me to.”

  “True, true. I am really much too kind-hearted. Well, in brief, how much have you got?”

  “Twenty-five pistoles.”

  “Making, all told?”

  “Four hundred and seventy-five livres,” D’Artagnan replied for, like Archimedes, he was a lightning calculator.

  “When we get to Paris,” Porthos said cheerfully, “we shall still have four hundred, plus our saddles.”

  “But what about our troop horses?” Aramis asked.

  “Well, out of the four horses our lackeys own we can make two horses for the masters to ride and we can draw lots for who does so,” Athos suggested. “With the four hundred livres we now have, we can conjure up a half a horse for one of the two dismountees. Then by scraping the linings of our pockets we can hand D’Artagnan a tidy sum. He has a steady hand; we can go stake the money in the first gaming-house we find. And that is that!”

  “Let us get on with our dinner,” Porthos urged. “The food is getting cold.”

  Relieved of anxiety as to the future, the quartet fell to, doing ample justice to the repast; the remains were consigned to Messrs. Mousqueton, Bazin, Planchet and Grimaud.

  In Paris D’Artagnan found a letter from Monsieur de Tréville advising him that upon his request the King had just granted him the high favor of transfer from the guards to the Royal Musketeers in the not too distant future. As this transfer fulfilled D’Artagnan’s most ambitious dream in life—except of course his desire to find Constance Bonacieux—he ran, filled with joy, to tell his friends the good news. He had left them but a half-hour before, cheerful as could be; he now found them dejected and apprehensive. They had repaired to the house of Athos, a fact which betrayed circumstances of considerable import.

  Monsieur de Tréville had just notified them that His Majesty was definitely resolved to open the campaign on May the first and that they must immediately look to their equipment. The four philosophers gazed blankly at one another, stunned. Monsieur de Tréville never jested in matters of discipline.

  “How much do you think your equipment will cost you?” D’Artagnan queried.

  “There’s no telling,” Aramis answered ruefully. “We have just finished estimating the cost with the most strictly Spartan economy. So far each of us needs fifteen hundred livres.”

  “Four times fifteen equals sixty,” said Athos. “Total: six thousand!”

  “For my part,” said D’Artagnan, “it seems to me that with a thousand livre
s apiece … to be sure I am not speaking as a Spartan but as a procurer.…”

  The word procurer roused Porthos from his trance. A procurer was not only a man who furnished things required, he was also a procureur, a procurator, a lawyer!

  “Ha!” he cried. “That gives me an idea!”

  “Congratulations,” Athos said breezily. “I confess I myself have not the shadow of the wraith of one.” He sighed. “As for D’Artagnan, gentlemen, his delight at becoming a musketeer has driven him quite insane. A thousand livres, forsooth! I warn you I need two thousand just for myself.”

  “Four times two make eight,” said Aramis. “We need eight thousand livres for our horses. Of course we have our saddles.”

  Athos waited until D’Artagnan, leaving to pay his visit of thanks to Monsieur de Tréville, had closed the door behind him.

  Then confidentially:

  “There is one thing you have forgotten, gentlemen,” he said.

  “What?”

  “What’s that, Athos?”

  “Neither of you has mentioned the priceless diamond that sparkles whenever D’Artagnan raises his hand. Devil take it, D’Artagnan is too good a comrade to leave his brothers in want when he wears a king’s ransom on his ring-finger.”

  XXIX

  OF THE HUNT FOR CAMPAIGN OUTFITS

  The most preoccupied of the four friends was certainly D’Artagnan, though as a guardsman he could be much more easily equipped than the musketeers who were all of high rank. But our Gascon cadet, as we have seen, was of a provident, almost avaricious nature and withal—who shall explain the paradox?—almost as vain as Porthos. For the moment beyond his vanity D’Artagnan was bestirred by a far more unselfish anxiety. Despite all his careful inquiries he had not obtained the slightest clue of Madame Bonacieux’s fate. Monsieur de Tréville had broached the subject to the Queen who had no notion of the young woman’s whereabouts but who promised to instigate a search for her. But Her Majesty’s promise was all too vague and D’Artagnan continued to worry.

  Athos steadfastly refused to leave his room; he was determined not to lift a finger to secure his campaign outfit.