The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  “Very well,” D’Artagnan agreed. “Let us give this money to the lackeys as Lord Winter suggested.”

  “To the lackeys, ay,” cried Athos. “Not to ours, but to the Englishmen’s lackeys.”

  Taking the purse from D’Artagnan, Athos tossed it to the English coachman.

  “This is for you and your friends,” he said.

  Such generosity in a man utterly destitute struck even Porthos. The story of it, repeated throughout Paris by Lord Winter, made a vast impression on every one save Messrs. Grimaud, Bazin, Mousqueton and Planchet.

  Taking leave of him, Lord Winter gave D’Artagnan Milady’s address—6 Rue Royale, in the fashionable quarter of town—and offered to call for him. D’Artagnan suggested the Englishman stop by for him at eight o’clock; he would be visiting Athos then, and they could conveniently leave from there.

  His forthcoming meeting with Milady filled our young Gascon’s mind. Recalling the strange circumstances in which she had entered his life, he was convinced that she must be some creature of the Cardinal’s, yet he felt invincibly drawn to her by some incomprehensible fascination. He had certain qualms, too. Would Milady recognize him as the man she had encountered at Meung and at Dover? Again, the fact that she must know him to be a friend of Monsieur de Tréville’s and therefore devoted body and soul to the King, would necessarily deprive him of some part of his present advantages; known by Milady and knowing her as he did, he would be dealing with her on an equal footing. As for her incipient affair with the Comte de Vardes, our presumptuous Gascon gave it but scant thought, even though that dandy was young, handsome, rich and high in the Cardinal’s favor. After all, a man of twenty and born in Tarbes does not worry over such trifles.

  First, D’Artagnan went home to dress in the most flamboyant fashion his wardrobe permitted, then he called on Athos and as usual told his friend everything. Athos listened to his plans; then, shaking his head, advised him somewhat bitterly to be circumspect.

  “What?” Athos protested. “You have just lost a woman whom you considered good, charming, perfect, and here you go running headlong after another.”

  D’Artagnan felt the truth in the reproach.

  “I loved Madame Bonacieux with my heart,” he explained. “I love Milady with my head. If I am so eager to be introduced to her, it is mainly because I want to ascertain what part she plays at Court.”

  “What part she plays at Court? Heaven help us, from all you have told me, that should be pretty obvious. She is some emissary of the Cardinal’s, a woman who will surely draw you into some trap. Look out, my boy; all this might well cost you your head!”

  “The devil! My dear Athos, apparently you always see the dark side of things!”

  “My dear fellow, I mistrust women, especially blondes. Why not? I have learned that lesson to my cost. You did tell me Milady was a blonde, didn’t you?”

  “She has the most beautiful fair hair imaginable,” D’Artagnan exclaimed lyrically.

  “My poor D’Artagnan, God help you.”

  “No, no, Athos, I simply want to find out what’s what. That done, I shall withdraw.”

  “Very well,” Athos said phlegmatically “Go ahead and find out what’s what!”

  Lord Winter arrived punctually and Athos, warned in good time, disappeared into the adjoining room. As it was close to eight o’clock, the two set off on their errand. A handsomely appointed carriage waited below and two mettlesome, spanking horses brought them to the Place Royale in a few minutes.

  Lady Clark received D’Artagnan ceremoniously. Her mansion was remarkably sumptuous, and although most English residents had left or were about to leave France because of the war, she had quite recently expended considerable money on her house. Obviously then the general measure which drove the English home did not apply to her.

  Presenting D’Artagnan, Lord Winter said:

  “Sister, here is a young gentleman who held my life in his hands. I insulted him and I am an Englishman, which gave him two reasons for abominating me. Nevertheless, he refused to take advantage of his victory. Pray thank him, Madame, if you have any affection for me.”

  Milady frowned slightly, a faint shadow spun cloudlike over her radiant brow and a most peculiar smile appeared on her lips. Observing these three reactions, D’Artagnan felt something like a shudder pass through him. The brother saw nothing of this for he was busy playing with Milady’s favorite monkey, which was tugging at his doublet.

  “Pray let me welcome you, Monsieur,” said Milady in a voice whose singular gentleness belied the symptoms of ill-humor D’Artagnan had just observed. “Today you have won an eternal claim to my gratitude.”

  The Englishman then turned toward them and related the duel in full detail; Milady listened with the greatest attention, but, despite the effort she made to dissimulate, it was clear that this recital vexed her. The blood rose to her head; her slender foot tapped a nervous tattoo under her gown. Still unaware of anything amiss, Lord Winter completed his story, then rose and crossed the room to a table bearing a bottle of Spanish wine and an assortment of glasses on a magnificent salver. Filling two glasses, he nodded to D’Artagnan to drink.

  D’Artagnan realized that to refuse to toast an Englishman was considered most discourteous; he therefore went over to the table and took up the second glass. He did not, however, lose sight of Milady; in the mirror he noticed an extraordinary change in her expression. Now that she believed herself to be unobserved, a fierce malevolent spark kindled her eyes and she gnawed savagely at her handkerchief.

  The comely maid that had admitted them now came in again and said something in English to Lord Winter. He immediately asked permission of D’Artagnan to retire, excusing himself on the grounds of urgent business and charging his sister to obtain his pardon.

  D’Artagnan shook hands with Lord Winter and returned to Milady. With surprising mobility her features had regained their gracious composure; only a few little spots of red on her handkerchief betrayed the fact that she had bitten her lips so hard as to draw blood. What lovely lips they were, too, D’Artagnan thought, proudly chiseled, sensitive and coraline.

  The conversation took a more cheerful, livelier turn. Milady appeared to have completely recovered. She explained that Lord Winter was not her brother but her brother-in-law; she had married the youngest of the family who left her a widow with one child. This child was Lord Winter’s only heir, unless Lord Winter were to marry. From Milady’s remarks, D’Artagnan sensed that a veil of mystery covered her, but he could not yet see under this veil.

  A half-hour of conversation convinced D’Artagnan that Milady was a compatriot; she spoke French with a purity and elegance that left no doubt on that score.

  D’Artagnan, profuse in gallant speeches and lavish in protestations of devotion, uttered a good deal of nonsense; Milady, accepting it, smiled benevolently upon the gushing Gascon. When it was time for him to retire, he took leave of her, the happiest of mortal men.

  On the staircase he met the pretty soubrette who brushed gently against him as she passed and, blushing to the roots of her hair, apologized for having touched him. So sweet was her voice, so charming her manner, that D’Artagnan granted her his pardon instantly.

  Next day he called on Milady again to be received even better than the evening before. Lord Winter was absent, so Milady did the honors of the house. She seemed to take a great interest in him. Where did he hail from, she asked, who were his friends, and had he ever thought of entering the Cardinal’s service?

  For a lad of twenty, D’Artagnan was, as we have seen, extremely prudent. Remembering his suspicions of Milady, he praised His Eminence to the skies, and assured her that he would certainly have joined the Cardinal’s guards instead of the Royal Guards had he happened to know Monsieur de Cavois as he knew Monsieur de Tréville.

  Milady, changing the subject not too pointedly, asked D’Artagnan quite casually if he had ever been in England. He replied that he had been sent there by Monsieur de Tréville
to negotiate for a supply of horses and that he had brought four back. Twice or thrice in the course of the conversation Milady bit her lips; D’Artagnan gathered that she realized she was dealing with a Gascon who played a cautious game.

  Leaving at the same hour as on the previous evening, D’Artagnan again met Kitty, the attractive soubrette, in the corridor. She looked at him with an unmistakable expression of fervor but D’Artagnan, absorbed by thoughts of the mistress, had no eyes for the servant’s demonstration.

  On the morrow, D’Artagnan returned to Milady’s for a third time, and the next day for a fourth; each time Milady received him more graciously than the last, and each time, either in the corridor or on the staircase, he encountered the comely soubrette. But as we have said, D’Artagnan paid no attention to poor Kitty’s persistent overtures.

  XXXII

  A DINNER AT THE HOUSE OF AN ATTORNEY-AT-LAW

  Brilliantly as Porthos had fought in the fray, he did not forget his engagement for dinner with Madame Coquenard. Next day toward one o’clock he had Mousqueton brush, dust, sponge and press his uniform. Then, trim and smart, he strolled off toward the Rue aux Ours, a man doubly favored by the fortunes of war and love.

  His heart beat fast but not with a youthful, impetuous love like that of D’Artagnan. No, a more material and practical interest stirred his blood. At last he was about to cross the mysterious threshold which led to the unknown stairway, which led to the unexplored corridor, which led to the office, which led to the safe of Maître Coquenard, Attorney-at-Law. Coin by ancient coin, bill by assigned bill, the lawyer’s fortune had progressed along the same path. Now Porthos was following triumphant in its wake.

  Many a time in his dreams Porthos had visioned the lawyer’s ample coffer. Surely it was a long, deep and capricious receptacle, padlocked, bolted, barred and fastened to the floor. How often and in what detail Madame Attorney had described it! Today her somewhat wrinkled but not unshapely hands were to open it to his jubilant gaze.

  And he, Porthos, a wanderer over the face of the earth, a man without family or fortune, a soldier accustomed to inns, taverns, cheap lodgings and pothouses, this epicure had been forced to content himself with what chance offered in the way of a friend treating him to a wretched meal. Now at least he was to enjoy the amenities of a comfortable home, to partake of good family meals and to revel in those little personal attentions which, the harder a man is, the sweeter they seem, as old soldiers say.

  To be received in the capacity of a cousin … to sit at a good table every day … to unfurrow the yellow wrinkled brow of the aged attorney … to teach the clerks the highest subtleties of such card games as bassette and lansquenet or such dice games as passe-dix … to pluck them, too, taking as fee for an hour’s lesson, their savings of a month … what a delightful prospect!…

  Amid his rosy dreams, Porthos did not forget the uncomplimentary traits attributed to attorneys even at that period (and still prevalent!). They were ever reported to be a stingy crew given to cheeseparing and frequent fasts. Still, save for occasional acts of parsimony, which Porthos had always found highly inopportune, Madame Attorney had been tolerably liberal—for a lawyer’s wife. Accordingly Porthos expected to find a household run on an ample and gracious scale.

  But at the front door he was seized with misgivings. The approach was unprepossessing: a dingy, stinking passage … a dank stairway barely lighted by a few rays that filtered through a barred window from an adjoining courtyard … and, on the second floor, a squat door studded with enormous nails like the main gate of the Grand Châtelet prison.…

  Porthos rapped at the door. A tall gangling clerk, pallid under a forest of tousled hair, opened, bowing with the air of a man forced to respect a lofty stature (which indicated strength), a uniform (which indicated valor) and a ruddy countenance (which indicated a familiarity with good living).

  Behind the tall clerk stood a medium-sized clerk, and behind the medium-sized clerk, a third rather tall clerk, and behind him a diminutive errand boy of some twelve summers. Three and a half clerks all told, which in those days represented a most prosperous practice.

  Though the musketeer was not expected before one o’clock, Madame Attorney had been watching the clock since noon, counting upon her suitor’s heart and perhaps his stomach to bring him earlier. Thus she entered the office from her private apartment just as her guest entered from the stairs and the worthy lady’s appearance rescued him from considerable embarrassment. The clerks eyed him with curiosity and, not knowing quite what to say to this ascending and descending scale, Porthos stood tongue-tied.

  “It is my cousin,” Madame Coquenard said. “Come in, do come in, Monsieur Porthos.”

  The name of Porthos produced its effect on the clerks who began to laugh; but as Porthos turned around sharply, the faces of the lawyerlings quickly recovered their wonted gravity.

  Madame Coquenard led her suitor through the antechamber, where the clerks were, and the office where they were supposed to be—a dark airless room littered with files of all sorts of papers. Emerging from the office they passed the kitchen on the right and entered the drawing room.

  These various successively intercommunicating rooms scarcely filled Porthos with optimism. Through all these open doors, voices carried disagreeably, he thought, and the privacy of conversation suffered. Worse, while passing by, he had cast a swift investigating glance into the kitchen; to the shame of Madame Attorney and to his own deep regret, he admitted to himself that it possessed no roaring fire with great spits turning before it, and none of the bustle and animation which generally prevail in that sanctuary of delicious fare when a good meal is in the making.

  The attorney must have been warned of a cousinly visit, for he showed no surprise at the sight of Porthos, who approached with an easy air and bowed courteously.

  “It seems we are kinsmen, Monsieur Porthos,” he remarked, rising yet supporting his weight on the arms of his cane chair. Swathed in a black doublet in which his slender body was all but lost, the old man was sharp, dry, sallow, and wizened. His little gray eyes, which glittered like carbuncles, and his grimacing mouth seemed to be the only features still alive in his face. Unfortunately for him his legs were beginning to refuse to serve the bony structure of his body; in the last six months of this weakness, he had become virtually a slave to his wife. Her cousin was accepted with resignation, no more. A nimble Maître Coquenard, firm on his legs, would have declined all relationship with Monsieur Porthos.

  “Ay, Monsieur, we are cousins,” Porthos confirmed, without losing countenance, for he had never expected an enthusiastic reception in this quarter.

  “On the distaff side, I believe?” the attorney asked maliciously.

  Porthos missed the point and, taking the query to be a proof of naïveté, chuckled softly under cover of his bushy mustache. Madame Coquenard, who knew that an ingenuous attorney was rare indeed among that species, smiled a whit and blushed a great deal.

  From the moment Porthos appeared, Maître Coquenard had been casting anxious glances at a large chest that stood facing his oak desk. Porthos realized that this chest, though not similar in shape to the chest of his reveries, was nevertheless the blessed receptacle he had designs on. “Curious,” he thought, congratulating himself, “curious that the reality stands several feet higher than the object of my dream.”

  Maître Coquenard delved no further into his genealogical research. Turning his worried glance from the solid chest to the solid countenance of Porthos, he merely asked:

  “Surely our cousin will favor us by dining with us once before he goes off to the wars, eh, my dear?”

  This time Porthos registered the thrust full in the pit of his stomach. Apparently Madame Coquenard felt it too, for she replied:

  “My cousin will not return if he finds we have treated him poorly. If on the contrary he enjoys himself here, he still has only very little time to spend in Paris and even less time to devote to us. We should therefore beg him to grant us almo
st every free moment we can spare until he goes away.”

  This succour coming to Porthos at the very moment he had been attacked in his gastronomic hopes inspired the musketeer with lively feelings of gratitude toward Madame Coquenard.

  “Oh, my legs, my poor legs, where are you?” the attorney groaned, attempting to smile.

  Presently the dinner hour arrived and the trio adjourned to the dining room, a large dark room opposite the kitchen.

  The clerks, who must have inhaled perfumes unusual to the house, were of military punctuality and stood waiting, their stools in their hands, to be invited to sit down. Their jaws moved in a preliminary activity that augured gargantuan disposal of what meats might fall under their teeth. Naturally the errand boy was not admitted to the honors of the master’s table. Watching the starvelings, Porthos thought:

  “By God, were I my cousin, I would not keep such a gluttonous crew! Why, they look like shipwrecked sailors who have been without food for six long weeks!”

  Madame Coquenard rolled her husband in on a chair equipped with casters; Porthos helped her to trundle him up to the table. The lawyer had scarcely entered when he began to twitch his nostrils and exercise his jaws as the clerks had done.

  “Ha!” he exclaimed, “here is a most inviting soup!”

  “What the devil can they smell that is so extraordinary in this soup?” Porthos grumbled to himself as he looked down upon a pale bouillon, abundant but innocent of any meat, with, on its surface, some crusts floating as scarce as the islands of an archipelago!

  Madame Coquenard smiled and, upon a sign from her, they all sat down eagerly. First Maître Coquenard was served, next Porthos; next Madame Coquenard filled her own plate, exhausting the bouillon; then the dampened crusts went to the impatient clerks. At this moment the dining-room door opened of itself with a creak; through the half-open leaves, Porthos caught sight of the errand-boy. Not permitted to partake of the feast, the stripling was nibbling at his bread in the hall, stationed strategically there in order to flavor it with the twin aromas of dining room and kitchen.