The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  Any brave exploit bears its own private reward. D’Artagnan’s restored to him the peace of mind he had lost. Of the two ruffians sent to murder him, one was dead and the other was now devoted to his interests. D’Artagnan had ample cause to congratulate himself upon his tranquillity—a tranquillity which proved one thing, namely, that he did not yet know Milady.

  XLII

  OF ANJOU WINE AND ITS SALUBRIOUS VIRTUES

  After the most disheartening news of the King’s health, reports of his convalescence reached the camp. As His Majesty was very eager to participate personally in the siege it was announced that he would set forth as soon as he could mount a horse. Meanwhile the Duc d’Orléans did very little. He knew he might be removed from his command any day and replaced by either the Duc d’Angoulême or by Bassompierre or Schomberg, rivals for his post. So he wasted day after day wavering and attempting to feel out the enemy. He dared attempt no large scale enterprise to drive the English from the Ile de Ré where they were still laying siege to the citadel of Saint Martin and to the Fort de La Prée just as the French were besieging La Rochelle.

  (Speculation ran rife as to the three candidates for the supreme command. There was Charles de Valois, Duc d’Angoulême, the bastard son of King Charles IX of France and Marie Touchet, whom that monarch celebrated in verse. The Duc d’Angoulême was now fifty-two years old. At sixteen he had been named Grand Prior of France; shortly after he had inherited large estates left by Catherine de’ Medici and at the age of eighteen he was dispensed from his vows of the order of Malta and was allowed to marry. A Colonel of Horse under Henry IV, he had plotted against the King to force him to abjure the Queen and marry his mistress, the Marquise de Verneuil. Thirty years ago, he had plotted with Spain, been condemned to death, then to perpetual imprisonment in the Bastille where he had spent eleven years. Released in 1616, he had served the crown in various military and diplomatic capacities. Ten years later he was to serve as General of the French Army in Lorraine during the Thirty Years’ War.

  There was Bassompierre, who was now forty-eight. Twenty years before he had shared in the dissipations of court life under Henry IV; he had also fought in the Savoy campaign and in 1603 in Hungary against the Turks. Six years ago he had supported Louis XIII against the rebel Huguenots on this same field of La Rochelle. In 1630 he was to be a plotter against Richelieu in the famous conspiracy of the Day of Dupes and, like d’Angoulême, he was to spend twelve long years in the Bastille. He was to die at the age of eighty-seven.

  The third candidate for the supreme command was Henri de Schomberg, Marshal of France and son of a Marshal of France. He was connected with a German family, several of whose members had fought in the French cause. One indeed had been killed in the service of Henry IV at Ivry.)

  D’Artagnan meanwhile had become somewhat more easy, as always happens after a danger has passed and seems to have completely vanished. His only anxiety was at hearing no tidings from his friends. But one morning early in November everything was explained by the following letter, dated from Villeroi:

  Monsieur d’Artagnan:

  Messieurs Athos, Porthos and Aramis, having dined well at my establishment and being in very high spirits, created such a disturbance that the provost of the château, a very strict man, ordered them confined to quarters for several days. But, carrying out their orders, I am sending you a dozen bottles of my Anjou wine, of which they thought most highly. They hope you will drink to their healths in their favorite wine.

  In obeying them, Monsieur, I commend myself to you most respectfully,

  Your most humble and obedient servant.

  Godeau

  Purveyor and Steward to the Musketeers.

  “Bravo!” D’Artagnan cried. “They remember me in their pleasures as I remember them in my troubles. I shall most assuredly drink to their healths with all my heart. But I will not drink alone.”

  And he hastened off to invite two guardsmen, to whom he was closer than the others, to share the light toothsome Anjou wine he had just received. As one of his comrades was engaged that evening and the other one the next day, the meeting was fixed for two days later.

  D’Artagnan therefore sent the twelve bottles to the guard’s canteen with orders that they be carefully stored. Then on the festive day, as the dinner was to take place at noon, he dispatched Planchet to the canteen at nine o’clock to prepare everything for the entertainment.

  Planchet, very proud at being promoted to the dignity of maître d’hôtel, determined to make all necessary arrangements in the most intelligent manner. With this purpose he enlisted the services of the lackey of one of the guests, a lad named Fourreau, and of the cowardly soldier who had attempted to kill D’Artagnan. The convalescent, whose name was Brisemont, belonged to no troop; he therefore entered the service of D’Artagnan or rather of Planchet, serving in fact as a servant’s servant.

  The hour of the feast arrived. The two guests took their places; the viands were laid out upon the table. Planchet, a napkin folded over his arm, was to serve the guests. Fourreau was uncorking the bottles and Brisemont was decanting the wine which seemed to have acquired a good deal of sediment as a result of the shaking of the journey. The first bottle looked somewhat cloudy at the bottom; Brisemont poured the dregs into a glass which D’Artagnan permitted him to drink, for the poor devil was still very shaky because of his wound.

  The guests, having partaken of soup, were about to lift the first glass to their lips when suddenly the cannon of Fort Louis and Fort Neuf fired full blast. The guardsmen, thinking it meant a surprise attack either from the English or from the Huguenots, sprang to their swords. Host and guests sped to their posts. They had barely left the canteen when they discovered the cause of the firing. Cries of “Long live the King!” and “Long live the Cardinal!” rang out from all sides and the drums throughout the camp beat out a salute. The King in his impatience to reach La Rochelle had proceeded by forced marches, arriving at that very moment with his entire household and a reinforcement of ten thousand men, his musketeers preceding and following him. D’Artagnan, lining the route with his company, greeted his friends with a gesture; their eyes soon met his, especially since it was Monsieur de Tréville who first picked him out of the crowd. Then, the parade over, the four friends were reunited.

  “God bless us,” cried D’Artagnan, “you fellows could not have arrived more opportunely. The food on the table must still be piping hot—” he turned to appeal to the guardsmen, “don’t you think so, gentlemen?” Then he presented them to his friends.

  “So we are banqueting, eh?” Porthos asked.

  “I hope there are no women at your dinner,” Aramis observed.

  “Is there any drinkable wine in your shanty?” Athos inquired.

  “Of course, my dear friends, there is your wine.”

  “Our wine?” Athos asked in astonishment.

  “Yes, the wine you sent me.”

  “We sent you wine?”

  “Yes … you know … that little wine from the slopes of Anjou.…”

  “I know the wine you mean,” Athos conceded. “It is the wine you prefer,” D’Artagnan insisted. “Ay, if there is no Champagne or no Chambertin.”

  “Well, for want of Champagne or Chambertin you will have to put up with it.”

  “So you sent for Anjou wine!” Porthos approved. “Hats off to the connoisseur!”

  “No, this is the wine you sent me.”

  “What!” exclaimed Athos. “I sent you no wine. Did you, Aramis—”

  “No, Athos!”

  “Or you, Porthos?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Well, anyhow, gentlemen, your steward sent me some wine.”

  “Our steward?”

  “Yes, your steward, Godeau, purveyor to the musketeers.”

  “Never mind where it comes from,” Porthos urged. “Let us taste it; if it is any good, let us drink it.”

  “No,” Athos warned. “Let us drink no wine that comes to us from an un
known source.”

  “Right, Athos!” D’Artagnan agreed. “But did none of you instruct Godeau to send me wine?”

  “Certainly not. Yet you say he sent you some as a present from us?”

  “Here is the letter,” said D’Artagnan.

  “That’s not Godeau’s handwriting!” Athos declared. “I know his writing because I settled regimental mess accounts before we left.”

  “An obvious forgery!” Porthos scoffed. “We were never confined to quarters.”

  Aramis eyed D’Artagnan reproachfully.

  “How could you think we created a disturbance?”

  D’Artagnan grew pale and shivered.

  “Tu m’effrayes,” said Athos, using the familiar tu of which he was ever sparing. “You frighten me! What on earth is all this about?”

  A horrible suspicion crossed D’Artagnan’s mind.

  “Come, friends,” he begged. “Let us go back to the canteen at once and find out whether this is another vengeance on the part of that woman?”

  It was now Athos who turned pale as the six comrades made for the canteen. There, the first thing D’Artagnan sighted was Brisemont stretched out on the floor, writhing in horrible convulsions. Planchet and Fourreau, completely at a loss, were ministering to him. But it was quite plain that Brisemont was beyond mortal aid. His features contorted in agony:

  “Ha!” he cried, “shame upon you! You pretend to pardon me and now you poison me!”

  “What? What’s that, you wretch? I poison you?”

  “You gave me the wine … you told me to drink it … you are revenged upon me and I say it is a dastardly act.…”

  “No, no, Brisemont, do not believe it! I vow, I swear …”

  “God is above, Monsieur, and He will punish you! May God make you suffer some day just what I am now suffering.”

  “I swear by the Bible that I had nothing to do with this!” D’Artagnan kneeled over the dying man. “I never suspected the wine was poisoned; I was about to drink it myself, just as you did.”

  “I don’t believe you,” the soldier gasped as he expired, writhing.

  Athos shook his head ruefully. Porthos busied himself breaking the bottles and spilling the wine, while Aramis gave somewhat belated orders to fetch a confessor.

  “Once again you have saved my life, friends—not only my life but the lives of these two gentlemen!” D’Artagnan motioned toward the guardsmen. “Gentlemen,” he said, “may I ask you to maintain the deepest silence regarding this whole affair? It may well be that lofty personages have had a hand in the distressing scene you have just witnessed. Were it to be made public, we might all get into considerable trouble.”

  “Monsieur!” Planchet breathed, more dead than alive, “Monsieur, what a narrow escape I had!”

  “What, you rascal! You were going to drink my wine?”

  “To the King’s health, Monsieur. I was just about to take a token drink when Fourreau told me somebody was calling for me.”

  “Alas!” Fourreau confessed, his teeth chattering, “I wanted him out of the way so I could drink by myself.”

  “Gentlemen,” D’Artagnan told his fellow guardsmen, “you may readily understand that we cannot continue this banquet. Pray accept my excuses; we will put it off for another day.”

  The guardsmen bowed and, realizing that the four friends wished to be left alone, withdrew. The door closed upon their guests. Our friends looked at one another gravely, the full impact of the situation suddenly striking them.

  “First let us leave this room,” Athos suggested. “The dead are not pleasant company particularly when they have died a violent death.”

  “Planchet,” D’Artagnan ordered, “I commit the corpse of this poor wretch to your care. Let him be buried in holy ground. He was a criminal, to be sure, but he repented.”

  With which the four comrades went out, leaving to Planchet and Fourreau the duty of rendering mortuary honors to Brisemont.

  The steward gave them another room, where he served them some boiled eggs; they drank water which Athos in person drew from the well. In a few words, Porthos and Aramis were supplied with full information about what had led up to the present situation.

  D’Artagnan turned to Athos.

  “As you see, my dear friend, this is war to the death.” Athos nodded.

  “I see that quite plainly,” Athos agreed. “But do you think it is—er—it is that woman!”

  “I am certain of it.”

  “I still have my doubts.”

  “But that fleur-de-lis on her shoulder?”

  “She could easily be an Englishwoman who committed some crime in France and was branded for it.”

  “No, Athos, it is your wife! Don’t you recall how our descriptions tallied?”

  “Yes!” Athos stroked his chin. “Still, I should have thought that the other one was dead. I certainly strung her up systematically to that tree!”

  It was D’Artagnan’s turn to shake his head.

  “What are we to do?” he asked.

  “Gentlemen, we cannot go on with a sword eternally dangling over our heads,” Athos replied. “We must solve this problem.”

  “But how?”

  “Well, D’Artagnan, try to meet her again; discuss things with her; tell her this is a question of peace or war! Give her your word as a gentleman never to say or do anything about her in return for her solemn oath to remain neutral with regard to yourself. Tell her that otherwise you will apply to the Chancellor, to the King, to the public hangman. Tell her you will move the courts against her and denounce her as branded. Tell her that you will have her tried and that if she were miraculously acquitted, you yourself will strike her down as you would a mad dog.”

  “The idea appeals to me,” D’Artagnan confessed. “But how shall I meet her again?”

  “By the grace of time, my friend!” Athos explained. “Time is the father of opportunity; opportunity is the martingale of man. The more we have at stake, the more we stand to gain by waiting.”

  “Yes—but to wait surrounded by assassins and poisoners—?”

  “Pooh!” said Athos, “God has preserved us so far, He will preserve us farther.”

  “And, what’s more, we are men. After all, to risk our lives is our natural lot.” D’Artagnan paused. “But what of her?”

  “Her?” Athos looked puzzled. “You mean—”

  “Constance, Constance Bonacieux—”

  “Madame Bonacieux, of course,” Athos sighed. “Excuse me, my poor friend, I had forgotten you were in love.”

  “Cheer up,” Aramis put in. “The letter you found on the dead man proves that Madame Bonacieux is alive and in a convent. Living conditions in our convents are quite comfortable. As soon as the siege of La Rochelle is over, I promise you, on my part—”

  “Excellent, my dear Aramis!” Athos observed coolly. “We all know your views incline strongly to religion.”

  “I am only a musketeer ad interim,” Aramis said humbly.

  “Apparently he has had no word from his mistress for some time,” Athos whispered to D’Artagnan. “But never mind that! We know all about it.”

  “I see no great difficulty,” Porthos ventured. “How do you mean?”

  “The lady is in a convent, you say?”

  “Yes, Porthos.”

  “Well, the siege over, we shall take her out of the convent.”

  “But we still have to know in what convent she is now.”

  “True!” sighed Porthos.

  “I think I have a clue,” Athos announced. “Didn’t you tell us the Queen chose her convent, D’Artagnan?”

  “I think so.”

  “In that case Porthos can help us,” Athos suggested.

  “How so, if you please?”

  “We can appeal to your marquise, your duchess, your princess. She must have a long arm, Porthos?”

  “Hush, man!” Porthos placed a chubby finger on his lips. “I fear she is a cardinalist. She must know nothing of the matter.”
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br />   “In that case,” Aramis spoke up, “I will make myself responsible to find out exactly where Madame Bonacieux is at the present time.”

  “You, Aramis?” D’Artagnan asked.

  “What can you do?” Athos inquired.

  “You!” Porthos echoed.

  Aramis blushed.

  “I happen to know the Queen’s almoner,” he explained.

  On this assurance, their modest meal finished, the quartet separated, promising to meet again in the evening. D’Artagnan returned to his chores; the three musketeers repaired to Royal Headquarters to prepare their lodging.

  XLIII

  AT THE SIGN OF THE RED DOVECOTE

  Meanwhile the King, who shared the Cardinal’s hatred of Buckingham, but with greater cause, was impatient to meet the enemy. He had no sooner reached the front than he wished to begin operations. He therefore ordered all necessary preparations to be made in order first to drive the English from the Isle of Ré and next to press the siege of La Rochelle. But despite all his efforts, he was delayed by dissensions which broke out between Bassompierre and Schomberg on one hand and the Duc d’Angoulême on the other.

  Bassompierre and Schomberg, as Marshals of France, claimed their right to command the army under the orders of the King. But the Cardinal, knowing Bassompierre to be a Huguenot at heart, feared that he might not exert himself sufficiently against the English and the men of La Rochelle, his brothers in religion. The Cardinal therefore supported the Duc d’Angoulême whom the King at his instigation had named Lieutenant General. As a result, in order to prevent Bassompierre and Schomberg from deserting the army, a separate command had to be given to each. Bassompierre took up his quarters to the north of the city, between La Leu and Dompierre; the Duc d’Angoulême to the east, from Dompierre to Périgny; and Schomberg to the south, from Périgny to Angoutin.

  The quarters of the Duc d’Orléans were at Dompierre; the King’s quarters were sometimes at Etré, sometimes at La Jarrie; the Cardinal’s quarters were on the dunes, by the bridge of La Pierre, in a simple house without intrenchment of any sort. Thus the Due d’Orléans could keep an eye on Bassompierre, the King on the Duc d’Angoulême, and the Cardinal on Schomberg. As soon as this organization was established, they all set about driving the English out of the island.