“The trouble is that the man we send must possess in himself alone all four of these qualities.”
“But where is such a lackey to be found?”
“Nowhere. He does not exist, I know. Therefore, choose Grimaud.”
“Choose Mousqueton.”
“Choose Bazin.”
“Choose Planchet. He is both brave and shrewd; thus he fulfills two of the four requisites.”
“Gentlemen,” Aramis intervened, “the point is not to decide which of our lackeys is the most discreet, the strongest, the cleverest or the bravest but which one of them is fondest of money.”
“What Aramis says is compact and of sound judgment,” Athos agreed. “We must speculate upon the faults of people and not upon their virtues. Monsieur l’Abbé, you are a great moralist.”
“I dare say,” Aramis nodded. “We require excellent service in order to succeed, granted; but there is more to it than that. We also require excellent service in order not to fail, for if ever we fail the matter involves not the heads of our lackeys but our own.”
“Speak lower,” Athos warned.
“What I have said holds good not for the lackey in question but for the master, or even for the masters,” Aramis observed significantly. “I ask you this: are our lackeys sufficiently devoted to us to risk their lives for us? No!”
“Upon my word, I would almost vouch for Planchet,” D’Artagnan said.
“Well, then, my friend, double your voucher. To his natural loyalty add a good round sum of money. Thus instead of answering for him once, answer for him twice.”
“To be disappointed just the same,” Athos grumbled, ever an optimist where things were concerned and a pessimist when it came to men. “They will promise you anything for the sake of money, but once on the road fear will prevent them from acting. Once caught, they will be pressed; once pressed, they will confess everything. Devil take it, we are not children. To reach England—” Athos lowered his voice, “—our messenger must cross most of France which is honeycombed with cardinalist spies. He needs a passport to embark. And he must know English in order to ask his way to London (if ever he lands in England!). Really the whole thing is very difficult!”
But D’Artagnan, determined that the mission be accomplished, contradicted him:
“Not at all! For my part I think it quite easy! Of course if we send Lord Winter extravagant tirades about the horrors the Cardinal perpetrates—”
“Don’t shout!” Athos warned.
“—about intrigues and secrets of state,” D’Artagnan continued, lowering his tone, “then we will all undoubtedly be broken on the wheel. But for God’s sake, don’t forget this, which you yourself mentioned, Athos: we are writing to him about family affairs, no more. Our sole purpose in communicating with him is to beg him to meet Milady the moment she reaches London and to make it impossible for her to injure us. I shall write to him more or less like this—”
“Well, let’s hear you!” Aramis broke in quietly, assuming a critical look.
D’Artagnan began phrasing his message before putting pen to paper:
“Monsieur et Cher Ami—”
Athos immediately stopped him:
“Ah, yes, D’Artagnan, you call an Englishman ‘dear friend.’ Bravo, a capital beginning! For that alone you would be quartered instead of broken on the wheel.”
“Well, then, I shall say just: Monsieur.”
“You may even say My Lord,” Athos suggested, invariably a stickler for form.
“Milord, do you recall the little goat pasture of the Luxembourg—?”
“Good God! The Luxembourg, now! Anyone reading that would be certain to see a reference to the Queen Mother. You’re a subtle fellow, D’Artagnan.”
“All right, let us put it this way: Milord, do you recall a certain little enclosure where your life was spared—”
“My dear D’Artagnan, you will never be anything but a very poor letter-writer. ‘Where your life was spared!’ Bah, that is ignoble. No one reminds a gentleman of such favors received. A benefit reproached is an offense committed.”
“You’re unbearable, my dear Athos. If this letter is to be written under your censure, I beg to resign.”
“You will be doing rightly, my friend. Handle musket or sword and you will always come off splendidly; but leave the pen to Monsieur l’Abbé, for literature is his province.”
“Ay,” Porthos concurred. “Hand the pen to Aramis. He writes these in Latin.”
“So be it. You draw up the note for us, Aramis. But by our Holy Father the Pope, be concise or I shall pare you and prune you to the bone, I warn you.”
“I don’t at all mind helping you,” Aramis declared with the ingenuous confidence inherent in every poet. “But let me first hear something more definite about the subject matter. One way or another I gather the sister-in-law is a vile woman; I judged as much when I listened to her conversation with the Cardinal.”
“God’s death, man, speak lower!” Athos growled.
“What I need is more facts,” Aramis elaborated. “The details escape me.”
“I’d like to know more about all this, too,” said Porthos.
D’Artagnan and Athos exchanged a long glance. Presently Athos, rousing himself from his meditation, nodded assent to D’Artagnan’s unspoken query. He was even paler than usual. D’Artagnan, feeling free to talk, said:
“You must write something of this sort, Aramis: Milord, your sister-in-law is a villainous woman who has sought to kill you in order to inherit your wealth. But she has never been really married to your brother because she still has a husband in France and because she—”
D’Artagnan paused, searching for appropriate terms. He looked askance at Athos who suggested:
“Because her husband drove her out of his house?”
“He drove her out of his house,” D’Artagnan repeated, “because she had been branded!”
“Branded?” Porthos exclaimed. “Impossible.”
“It is God’s truth!”
“And she sought to kill her brother-in-law!”
“Ay,” Athos admitted dully.
“So she was previously married in France?” Aramis asked. “That would make her a bigamist, would it not?”
“Ay,” Athos repeated hoarsely.
“And her husband discovered a fleur-de-lis branded on her shoulder,” Porthos supplied.
“Ay,” Athos said for the third time in a voice now the grimmer for being under perfect control.
“And who actually saw this brand?” Aramis inquired.
“D’Artagnan and I.” Athos coughed. “Or to observe chronological sequence, I and D’Artagnan.”
“And the woman’s first husband is still alive?”
“Very much so.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely certain,” said Athos. “I happen to be the husband.” A leaden silence fell upon them. Then, to ease the situation: “D’Artagnan has stated the argument of our letter quite clearly,” he went on; “let Aramis write it.”
“Heaven help me, Athos, this message is devilishly hard to convey. The Lord Chancellor himself would find it hard to know what to say, yet he can certainly turn a pretty phrase! No matter, hold your tongues and I shall do my best.”
Aramis took up the quill, meditated for a few moments and wrote some ten lines in a neat somewhat feminine hand. Then, speaking softly and deliberately as if each word had been scrupulously weighed, he read:
My Lord:
The person who writes these lines had the honor of crossing swords with you in the little inclosure off Rue d’Enfer. Since then, you have several times declared your feelings of friendship toward the writer.
Accordingly he considers it his duty to repay you in kind by sending you some urgent advice.
Twice already you have almost fallen a victim to a close relative of yours whom you believe to be your heir because you do not know that before contracting a marriage in England she had not dissolved a previous ma
rriage in France.
She will make a third attempt upon your life very shortly. She sailed from La Rochelle last night, bound for England.
Pray be on the alert for her, she has vast and terrible plans. If you would be convinced of her wickedness, you have but to read her past history upon her left shoulder.
“Bravo, Aramis, you have the pen of a Secretary of State,” Athos approved. “Should your letter reach Lord Winter, he will be on his guard; should even His Eminence intercept it, we shall not be compromised. However, the lackey we send might easily stop at Châtellerault and pretend he has been to London and back. I suggest we give him only one-half the sum promised, agreeing to pay the other half in exchange for the answer. Have you your diamond, D’Artagnan?”
“I have something more useful,” D’Artagnan replied. “I have its value in cash.”
He tossed a bag on the table. Hearing the gold pieces jingle, Aramis raised his eyes, Porthos started, but Athos remained impassive.
“How much is there in that little bag?”
“Seven thousand livres in louis, each worth twelve francs apiece.”
“Seven thousand livres!” Porthos gasped. “That poor little diamond was worth—”
“Apparently, for here is the money,” Athos replied. “I doubt very much whether our friend D’Artagnan has added any money of his own to the amount.”
“But gentlemen,” D’Artagnan urged briskly, “in all this we are not thinking of the Queen. Let us take some heed of the welfare of her beloved Buckingham. That is the least we owe her.”
“Very true!” Athos agreed. “But that matter concerns Aramis.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?” asked Aramis, blushing.
“It’s quite simple. Just write a second letter to that very clever person in Tours.”
Aramis picked up his pen, reflected a moment and wrote the following lines, which he immediately submitted to the approval of his friends.
“My dear Cousin—” he began.
“Ah! So you are related to this clever person?”
“We are first cousins.”
“Go on then, leave it ‘My dear Cousin!’ ”
My dear Cousin:
His Eminence the Cardinal whom God preserve for the happiness of France and the confusion of her enemies is on the point of putting an end to the heretical rebellion of La Rochelle. Probably the succor of the English fleet will never even arrive within sight of the city. I will even venture to say that I am certain Lord Buckingham will be prevented by some great event from even setting out.
As you know His Eminence is the most illustrious and determined statesman of times past, of times present and probably of times to come. He could extinguish the sun if the sun stood in his way.
Pray give these happy tidings to your sister, my dear cousin. I dreamed that this accursed Englishman was dead. I cannot remember now whether it was by steel or poison but I can well remember I dreamed of his death. As you know, my dreams never deceive me. How many have failed to come true in the past?
You may be sure, then, of seeing me return soon.
“Excellent!” Athos approved. “You are the king of poets, my dear Aramis; you speak like the Apocalypse and you are as authentic as the Gospel. All you need now is to address the letter.”
“That is soon done!” Aramis folded the letter neatly and elegantly, took up his pen and wrote:
To Mademoiselle Michon
Seamstress
Tours
The three friends glanced at one another and laughed at the ease with which Aramis had foiled their curiosity.
“Now you will understand, gentlemen, that Bazin alone can carry this letter to Tours,” Aramis announced. “My cousin knows nobody and trusts nobody except Bazin; any other person would therefore fail. Besides Bazin is ambitious and learned; Bazin has read history, gentlemen, and he knows that Sixtus the fifth became Pope after having been a swineherd. Well, as he means to enter the Church at the same time as I do, he does not despair of becoming Pope, in his turn, or at least Cardinal. You can understand that a man with such aims will never allow himself to be captured or, if captured, will suffer martyrdom rather than speak.”
“I heartily agree and I vote for Bazin,” D’Artagnan spoke up, “but grant me Planchet. Milady had him thrown out of her house one day amid a thumping and thwacking of cudgels. Now Planchet has a good memory and I guarantee that if he can invent some possible vengeance, he will allow himself to be flayed alive before he abandons it. If the affairs of Tours concern you, Aramis, those of London are mine. I request then that Planchet be chosen, especially as he has already been to London with me and can say very correctly: ‘London, sir, if you please,’ and ‘My master, Lord d’Artagnan!’ With that equipment you may rest satisfied; he will make his way handily, both going and returning.”
“In that case Planchet must receive seven hundred livres for going and seven hundred for coming back,” Athos advised, “and Bazin three hundred for going and three hundred for returning. That will reduce our general assets to five thousand livres. We will each take one thousand livres to be employed as each sees fit and we will leave a fund of one thousand livres under the guardianship of Monsieur l’Abbé, here, for extraordinary occasions or for common necessities. Will that do?”
“My dear Athos, you speak like Nestor,” Aramis declared, “and Nestor, as all men know, was the wisest among the Greeks.”
“Good, that’s settled!” Athos said with some satisfaction. “Planchet and Bazin shall be our messengers. All in all, I am not sorry to retain Grimaud. He is accustomed to my ways and I am very particular. Yesterday’s affair must have shaken him a little and this journey would utterly unnerve him.”
Planchet was summoned and given his instructions; D’Artagnan had already broached the matter to him, pointing out first how much money, next how much glory and third how much danger were involved.
“I will slip the letter in the lining of my coat,” the lackey said, “and if I am caught, I will swallow it.”
“But how will you fulfill your mission then?” D’Artagnan objected.
“Monsieur need but give me a copy this evening and I shall learn the text by heart overnight.”
D’Artagnan looked quizzically at his comrades as though to invite them to confirm his faith in Planchet and to congratulate him on his lackey’s resourcefulness. Then, turning to Planchet:
“You have sixteen days in all: eight days to get to Lord Winter and eight days to return here. If you are not here at exactly eight o’clock in the evening on the sixteenth day—I mean eight and not even five minutes past—then you will receive no money whatever for the return journey.”
“Well, then, Monsieur must buy me a watch.”
“Take this watch,” Athos interrupted with his usual careless generosity, sliding his own watch across the table, “take it and be a good lad. Remember that if you gossip or babble or lag on the way you are risking the head of a master who believed so roundly in your loyalty that he answered for you and persuaded us to choose you for this mission. But remember this too: if through your fault anything untoward befalls Monsieur d’Artagnan, I swear I shall find you wherever you may be and I shall make a point of ripping up your belly!”
Planchet flushed, at once humiliated by the suspicion and terrified at the musketeer’s icy calm.
“Monsieur may trust me—” he said meekly.
“And remember,” Porthos put in, “remember I will skin you alive!”
“Oh, Monsieur—”
“As for me,” Aramis added in his soft melodious voice, “remember I will roast you before a slow fire like a savage.”
“Oh, Monsieur—”
And Planchet began to weep, perhaps from terror at these threats or perhaps from tenderness at seeing these four friends so closely united. D’Artagnan clasped the lackey’s hand and embraced him:
“Cheer up, Planchet,” he said comfortingly, “these gentlemen are saying all this out of love for me. At bottom t
hey have a great respect for you.”
“Monsieur, I shall succeed or I shall be cut in quarters, and if they cut me in quarters, not a morsel of me will speak!”
It was resolved that Planchet should set out next morning at eight in order to have ample time to memorize the letter and to rest before leaving. He gained just twelve hours by this arrangement since he was scheduled to return on the sixteenth day by eight in the evening.
In the morning D’Artagnan, who deep in his heart felt a certain partiality for Buckingham, drew Planchet aside just as the lackey was about to mount his horse.
“Listen carefully,” he enjoined. “After you have given Lord Winter the letter and he has read it, tell him: ‘Watch over Lord Buckingham for they wish to assassinate him.’ Do you understand?”
“Ay, Monsieur: ‘Watch over Lord Buckingham for they wish to assassinate him.’ ”
“Planchet, this is so serious and so important that I did not tell even my friends I meant to entrust this secret to you. And I would not put it in writing, no! not even for a Captain’s commission!”
“Do not worry, Monsieur, you shall see how reliable I am.”
With which Planchet, mounted on an excellent horse he was to leave sixty miles further when he took the post, galloped off, somewhat hurt by the triple threat the musketeers had made but otherwise as cheerful as could be.
On the morrow Bazin set out for Tours, being allowed eight days for his mission.
During the absence of their messengers our friends eyed the watch around the dial, thrust their noses to the wind and kept their ears peeled. Day by long day they collected and sifted any rumors they might overhear, they observed the Cardinal’s actions minutely and they spied upon every courier that set foot in camp. More than once when called out on special duty, they were seized with uncontrollable misgivings. Also they had constantly to look to their own safety, for Milady was the type of phantom which, once arisen, did not allow its victims to sleep very soundly thereafter.
The morning of the eighth day Bazin, fresh and deliberate and smiling as ever, entered the Parpaillot tavern as the musketeers were sitting down to breakfast and, as had been agreed upon, announced:
The Modern Library Children's Classics Page 113
