“The devil, my dear Aramis!” he cried. “If these are the prunes they send you from Tours, please pay my compliments to the gardener who gathers them.”
“You are mistaken, my friend,” Aramis replied with his usual tact. “This is from my publisher. It represents my fee for that poem in one-syllable verse which I began when I was in Touraine.”
“Indeed! Well, my dear Aramis, your publisher is very generous, that’s all I can say!”
“What, Monsieur!” Bazin put in. “A poem sells for that much money. Would you believe it? Oh Monsieur, you always succeed in everything; why, you may become the peer of Monsieur de Voiture and Monsieur de Benserade. I like that idea! A poet is almost as good as an abbé. Ah, Monsieur Aramis, please become a poet for my sake, I beg of you.”
“Bazin, my friend, I believe you are interfering in our conversation.”
Aware that he was at fault, Bazin bowed contritely and withdrew.
“Well,” said D’Artagnan with a smile, “the productions you sell are worth their weight in gold. You are very lucky, my friend. But take care or you will lose that letter which is popping out of your doublet. You would not want to lose a letter from your publisher.”
Aramis blushed to the roots of his hair, stuffed the letter deep in his pocket, and buttoned up his doublet.
“My dear D’Artagnan, we will now join our friends, if you please,” he suggested. “As I am rich, we will resume our dinners in common until the rest of you are rich in turn.”
“By my faith, with great pleasure, Aramis. It is a long time since we ate a decent dinner and I, for my part, have a somewhat hazardous expedition for this evening. I confess, I shall not be sorry to fortify myself with a few bottles of old vintage Burgundy.”
“Agreed as to the old Burgundy,” said Aramis, his ideas of religious retreat dispelled as by magic by the sight of the letter and the gold. “I myself am not averse to old Burgundy, I may add.”
Having pocketed three or four double pistoles for current needs, he placed the others in the ebony box inlaid with mother-of-pearl, over the famous handkerchief which served him as a talisman.
The two friends repaired first to Athos who, still faithful to his vow of remaining closeted at home, undertook to have the dinner served there. As he was brilliantly conversant with all the details of gastronomy, neither D’Artagnan nor Aramis offered the slightest objection to entrusting him with this all-important task.
As they went off in search of Porthos, they met that worthy’s valet Mousqueton at the corner of the Rue du Bac, looking most shamefaced and piteous as he drove a mule and a horse before him. D’Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise which was not without a certain note of joy.
“Ah, my yellow horse!” he said. “Aramis, look at that horse!”
“Oh, what a frightful brute!”
“Well, my friend, it was that very horse I rode into Paris!”
“What?” said Mousqueton. “Monsieur knows this horse?”
“It is of a most original color,” Aramis opined. “I never saw another one with such a hide in all my life.”
“I can well believe it,” said D’Artagnan, “that is why I got three crowns for him. It must certainly have been for his hide; that carcass of his wouldn’t fetch eighteen livres. But how on earth did you get that nag, Mousqueton?”
“Ah, Monsieur,” Mousqueton answered ruefully, “pray do not speak to me about it! It is a frightful trick played on us by the husband of our duchess.”
“How is that, Mousqueton?”
“Yes, Monsieur, we are looked upon with a very favorable eye by a lady of quality, the Duchess de—but your pardon, gentlemen, my master has commanded me to be discreet so I dare not mention her name! She had forced us to accept a little keepsake, a magnificent Spanish jennet and an Andalusian mule, which were beautiful to look upon. The husband heard of the affair, confiscated our two splendid beasts on the way, and substituted these horrible animals.”
“Which you are returning to him?” D’Artagnan asked.
“Exactly, Monsieur. You may well believe that we cannot accept such freaks in exchange for the thoroughbreds we were promised.”
“Lord! I should think not! Still, I should like to have seen Porthos on my yellow horse; it would have given me an idea of what I must have looked like when I arrived in Paris!” D’Artagnan laughed. “But don’t let us detain you, Mousqueton, go do your master’s bidding. Is he at home?”
“Ay, Monsieur,” Mousqueton replied, “but in a very bad humor. Giddy-up, there, get on, get on.…”
The wretched valet pursued his way toward the Quai des Grands-Augustins while the two friends went to ring at the bell of the unfortunate Porthos. But their friend, having seen them crossing the yard, took good care not to answer, and they rang in vain.
Meanwhile Mousqueton plodded on, arousing popular curiosity at every step, crossed the Pont Neuf, the two sorry beasts in the van, and reached the Rue aux Ours. Arrived there, following his master’s orders, he tied both horse and mule to the knocker of the attorney’s door. Then, without worrying about their future, he returned to Porthos to announce that his mission was completed.
In a little while, the two luckless beasts, who had eaten nothing since early morning, created such an uproar by raising the knocker and letting it fall again that the attorney ordered his errand-boy to inquire in the neighborhood to whom this horse and mule belonged.
Madame Coquenard, who of course recognized her gift, could not at first understand the reason for this restitution; but a visit from Porthos speedily enlightened her. The anger that blazed in the musketeer’s eyes despite his efforts at self-control terrified his sensitive inamorata. In fact Mousqueton had not concealed from his master that he had met D’Artagnan and Aramis and that in the yellow horse D’Artagnan had recognized the Béarn pony which had brought him to Paris and which he had sold for three crowns.
Porthos left after making an appointment to meet the attorney’s wife in the cloister of Saint-Magloire. Seeing Porthos leave the house, the attorney invited him to dinner, an invitation which the musketeer refused with a majestic air.
Madame Coquenard sped trembling toward Saint-Magloire, for she guessed what reproaches awaited her there, but she was also fascinated by her suitor’s lordly airs.
All the imprecations and reproaches that a man wounded in his pride and vanity can possibly heap upon a woman’s head, Porthos let fall in profusion on the bowed head of Madame Coquenard.
“Alas!” she apologized. “I did it all for the best! One of our clients is a horse-dealer … he owes money to the office … he is far behind in his payments … we cannot collect anything from him … so I took this mule and this horse for what he owed us … he swore to me they were fine, thoroughbred steeds.…”
“Madame,” Porthos said with icy dignity, “if he owed you more than five crowns, your horse-dealer is a thief.”
“There is no harm in trying to buy things cheap, Monsieur Porthos,” the lady countered, trying to excuse herself.
“No, Madame. But people who are always on the look-out for bargains should permit others to seek more generous friends.”
And Porthos, turning on one heel, took one step away from her.
“Monsieur Porthos! Monsieur Porthos!” she cried. “I was wrong, I see it now, I shouldn’t have driven a bargain when it came to equiping a cavalier like yourself!”
Without deigning to reply, Porthos took a second step. In her imagination, Madame Attorney saw him in the center of a dazzling cloud, wholly surrounded by duchesses and marchionesses, all of whom cast bags of money at his feet.
“Stop in the name of Heaven, Monsieur Porthos!” she implored. “Stop and let us talk.”
“Talking with you brings me misfortune!”
“But tell me, what do you ask of me?”
“Nothing—for that amounts to the same as if I asked you for something.”
Madame Coquenard hung on to the musketeer’s arm and, in an agony of grief, pleaded
:
“Monsieur Porthos, I am ignorant of all such matters. How should I know what a horse is? How do I know about saddles and harness and the rest?”
“You should have left it to me, Madame, because I know very well what they are. But you wished to save your money and consequently to lend at usury.”
“It was wrong of me, Monsieur Porthos, I know. But I will repair that wrong, on my word of honor.”
“How so?”
“Listen, Monsieur Porthos. This evening Monsieur Coquenard is to visit the Duc de Chaulnes, who has sent for him. It is for a consultation which will last three hours at least. Come, please come. We shall be alone and we can make up our accounts.”
“Bravo! Now you are making sense, my dear.”
“You have forgiven me?”
“We shall see,” said Porthos majestically, and the pair separated saying: “This evening, then?” and “Yes, this evening!”
“A devilish good job!” Porthos mused as he walked away. “Apparently I am getting closer to Maître Coquenard’s strong box at last!”
XXXV
AT NIGHT ALL CATS ARE GRAY
That evening, so impatiently anticipated by Porthos and D’Artagnan, at last arrived. As usual D’Artagnan called on Milady at about nine. He found her in a delightful mood; never had he been so well received. A single glanced sufficed to inform him that his note had been delivered and that it had had its effect.
Kitty entered, bringing two glasses of sherbet on a handsome salver. Her mistress smiled on her most graciously but alas! the poor girl was too depressed even to notice Milady’s condescension.
As D’Artagnan looked from one woman to the other, he was forced to acknowledge to himself that Nature had blundered when fashioning them: to the great lady she had given a base and venal soul and to the maid, the heart of a duchess.
By ten o’clock Milady seemed restless and fidgety for reasons that D’Artagnan understood perfectly well. She kept eying the clock, rising to her feet, and quickly sitting down again. And she smiled at D’Artagnan as if to say: “You are most amiable, to be sure, but you would be enchanting if only you would go home!”
D’Artagnan rose and took his hat, Milady offered him her hand to kiss; as he did so he realized that the pressure of her fingers was inspired not by coquetry but by gratitude at his departure. How desperately she must love de Vardes, he thought.
This time Kitty was not waiting for him either in the antechamber or in the corridor or by the main door; D’Artagnan had to make his way alone to the staircase and to Kitty’s little room. Opening the door, he found her sitting on her bed, her hands over her face, obviously weeping. Though she heard D’Artagnan enter, she did not look up; when he went up to her and took her hands, she burst into sobs.
D’Artagnan had guessed correctly: Milady received the letter, and in a delirium of joy, told her servant everything. Then, to reward Kitty for executing the commission favorably this time, she gave her a purseful of money. Returning to her own room, Kitty had flung the purse in a corner; it now lay on the floor agape, having disgorged a few gold pieces on the carpet. As D’Artagnan caressed her, the unhappy girl looked up at him. He was alarmed at the change in her countenance as she faced him, clasping her hands in a gesture of supplication, without venturing to speak a word.
However selfish D’Artagnan might be, he was touched by this mute sorrow; but he held too tenaciously to his plans and especially to this particular one to change the programme he had mapped out for himself. He therefore gave Kitty no grounds to hope that she could soften him but represented his action as one of pure vengeance.
The realization of this vengeance now seemed considerably simplified by the fact that Milady, doubtless to conceal her blushes from her lover, had ordered Kitty to extinguish all the lights in the apartment and even in her own room. Just before daybreak Monsieur de Vardes was to make his departure through the darkness.
Presently they heard Milady retire to her room. D’Artagnan slipped into the wardrobe and had hardly crouched down in it when Milady’s little silver bell rang. Kitty went to her mistress, closing the door after her, but the partition was so thin that almost everything the two women said was clearly audible.
Milady, who seemed drunk with joy, made Kitty repeat the smallest details of her supposed interview with de Vardes: how had he received the letter, how had he responded, what was the expression on his face, had he appeared to be truly amorous, and the rest. To all these questions poor Kitty, forced to put on a pleasant countenance, replied in a choked voice. But so selfish is happiness that her mistress did not even notice Kitty’s doleful accents.
Finally, as the hour of her meeting with de Vardes approached, Milady had all the lights about her extinguished, ordered Kitty back to her own room, and instructed her to introduce de Vardes as soon as he arrived.
Kitty did not have long to wait. The moment D’Artagnan perceived through the keyhole of his wardrobe that the whole apartment was in obscurity, he slipped out from his hiding place just as Kitty was closing the communicating door.
“What is that noise?” Milady demanded.
“It is I,” said D’Artagnan, in a low voice. “I, the Comte de Vardes.”
“Oh, my God, my God!” Kitty murmured, “he couldn’t even bear to wait for the hour he himself had named.”
“Well,” Milady’s voice trembled with desire, “why don’t you come in?” Then: “Come in, Comte,” she repeated, “you know I await you.”
At this appeal, D’Artagnan drew Kitty gently to one side and stole into Milady’s chamber.
Rage and sorrow can torture the soul in many ways but the worst way, surely, is when a lover receives under a name which is not his own the declarations of love meant for his fortunate rival. D’Artagnan found himself in a painful situation which he had not foreseen. Jealousy gnawed at his heart; and he suffered almost as much as poor Kitty who at that very moment was weeping bitterly in the adjoining room.
“Oh, Comte, Comte,” Milady said in her softest, warmest tone as she pressed his hand in her own, “how happy I am in the love which your glances and words have expressed whenever we have met. I too love you! Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow I must have some token from you which will prove that you are thinking of me. For my part, lest you be tempted to forget me, pray take this, pledge of my abiding love.”
With which she slipped a ring from her finger on to D’Artagnan’s. D’Artagnan knew this ring well, for he had often seen it on Milady’s hand; it was a magnificent sapphire encircled with brilliants. His first reaction was to return it, but Milady refused.
“No, no, keep this ring for love of me. Besides,” she added in a voice tremulous with emotion, “by accepting it, you do me a favor greater than you could possibly imagine.”
(“This woman is replete with mystery,” D’Artagnan thought. For a moment he was tempted to reveal everything. He even opened his mouth, prepared to tell Milady who he was and with what a revengeful purpose he had come to her bed.)
“Poor angel!” she continued. “That Gascon monster all but slew you, didn’t he?” (“I, a monster?” D’Artagnan wondered.) “Are your wounds still painful?” she concluded.
At loss for an effective answer, D’Artagnan assured her that he was in considerable physical distress.
“Set your mind at rest,” Milady murmured, “I myself will avenge you—and cruelly!”
“A pox on it!” D’Artagnan thought. “The moment for confidences has not yet come.”
It took D’Artagnan some time to recover from the effects of this brief dialogue, but nevertheless all his plans of immediate vengeance had completely vanished. This woman exerted an unaccountable power over him; he hated her with all the bitterness of offended pride and he loved her with all the fervor of desire unsatisfied. He had never imagined that such conflicting emotions could dwell at once in the same heart and, blending, kindle so strange and so diabolical a lust.
At length the clock struck one, and it was time for him to go.
His only feeling as he left Milady was one of sharp regret. Amid the passionate farewells they exchanged, another meeting was appointed for the following week. The luckless Kitty, who had hoped to speak a few words to D’Artagnan when he passed through her chamber, was doomed to disappointment. Milady herself guided him through the darkness and did not leave his side until they reached the staircase.
Next morning D’Artagnan hastened to visit Athos, for, involved in so singular an adventure, he wanted his advice. He therefore told him all. Athos listened without interrupting him but frowned several times in the course of the Gascon’s narration.
“Your Milady,” he said, “seems to me to be an infamous creature. All the same, you were wrong to deceive her. No matter how you look at it, you have a dangerous enemy on your hands.”
As he spoke, Athos looked steadily at the sapphire D’Artagnan wore in place of the Queen’s ring, now carefully stored away in a casket.
“I see you are looking at my ring,” said the Gascon, proud to show off such an expensive gift.
“Yes. It reminds me of a family heirloom.”
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Magnificent! I did not think two sapphires of such water existed. Did you trade your diamond for it?”
“No, it is a gift from my beautiful English mistress—or rather from my beautiful French mistress—for I am convinced she was born in France, though of course I didn’t ask her.”
“Milady gave you that ring?” Athos gasped.
“Certainly. She gave it to me last night.”
“Let me have a look at it.”
“With great pleasure,” D’Artagnan answered, slipping it off his finger.
Athos examined it carefully and, growing very pale, tried it on the third finger of his left hand; it fitted as though made to order. A shadow of vengeful wrath clouded his usually serene brow.
The Modern Library Children's Classics Page 100
