The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas - [Full Version] - (ANNOTATED)

by Alexandre Dumas

  “My friend,” he said slowly, “I wish, as the son of an old comrade— and by the way, I believe your story of the lost letter—I wish, I say, to make up for my initial rather chilly reception by letting you in on the secret of our situation here. The king and the cardinal are the greatest of friends, and their apparent differences are only a game to deceive fools. I wouldn’t want one of my countrymen, a handsome cavalier and brave youth who must get along here, to fall for these deceptions and be lost, as has happened to so many others. Understand that I am devoted to both these all-powerful masters, and that all my efforts are in service of the king and of Monsieur le Cardinal, who is one of the most illustrious geniuses France has ever produced. Now, young man, be guided by this. And if you have, from your family, your relations, or even your instincts, any hostility toward the cardinal, such as we see in so many noble houses, bid me adieu, and we’ll say goodbye. I’ll help you where I can but without attaching you to my person. I hope that my frankness, in any event, will make you my friend, as you are the only young man to whom I’ve ever spoken like this.”

  To himself, Tréville said, “If the cardinal, who knows how much I detest him, has sent this young fox to me, he will certainly have told his spy that the best way of paying court to me is to heap scorn on the cardinal. Therefore, despite my protestations, my cunning friend here will respond by denouncing His Eminence to me.”

  But it proved otherwise. D’Artagnan replied, with the greatest sincerity, “Monsieur, I’ve come to Paris with exactly such intentions. My father recommended that I endure nothing from anyone but the king, the cardinal, and yourself, whom he held to be the first three names in France.” D’Artagnan had added Monsieur de Tréville to the other two, but he thought the addition would cost him nothing.

  “I have the greatest esteem for Monsieur le Cardinal,” he continued, “and the most profound respect for his actions. The better for me, Monsieur, as you say so frankly—for then I shall have the honor of sharing your opinions. On the other hand, if you distrust me, as naturally you might, then I’m probably ruining myself by speaking the truth. But I hope you will still honor me with your esteem, which is worth more to me than anything else in the world.”

  Monsieur de Tréville couldn’t have been more surprised. He admired d’Artagnan’s wisdom and candor, though they didn’t entirely remove his doubts about him. The more superior this young man proved himself, the more dangerous he’d be as a spy. Nevertheless, he shook d’Artagnan’s hand and said, “You’re an honest youth, but at the moment what I’ve already offered is really the best I can do for you. My hôtel will always be open to you. Call on me at need as opportunities arise and you will probably be able to fulfill your desires.”

  “That is to say, Monsieur,” replied d’Artagnan, “that you’ll wait to see if I’m worthy. Very well, rest easy,” he added, with the familiarity of the Gascon, “you won’t have to wait long.” And he bowed as he withdrew, as if henceforth he’d take care of himself.

  “Not so fast,” said Tréville, stopping him. “I promised you a letter for the Director of the Academy. Are you too proud to accept it, my young gentleman?”

  “No, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, “and I’ll answer for it that this one won’t share the other’s fate! I’ll guard it, I swear, so that it arrives at its destination, and woe to him who tries to take it from me!”

  Tréville smiled at this bravado and, leaving his young countryman at the window, where they’d been talking, he seated himself at a table to write the promised letter of recommendation. Meanwhile d’Artagnan, having nothing better to do, beat out a march with his fingers on the windowsill and watched the musketeers as they went, one by one, down the street, following them with his eyes until they disappeared around the corner.

  Monsieur de Tréville, having written the letter, sealed it and rose, then approached the young man to give it to him; but just as d’Artagnan reached out his hand to take it, Tréville was astonished to see him start, turn red with anger, and rush from the office, crying, “God’s blood! He won’t escape me this time!”

  “Who won’t?” demanded Tréville.

  “Him—my thief!” shouted d’Artagnan. “Ah! The traitor!” And he disappeared.

  “Devil take the madman!” murmured Monsieur de Tréville. “Unless,” he added, “this is a clever way to escape, having failed in his scheme.”

  IV

  The Shoulder of Athos, the Baldric of Porthos, and the Handkerchief of Aramis

  D’Artagnan, furious, crossed the antechamber in three bounds and dashed for the stairs, planning to descend them four at a time. But carried away by his haste, he ran headfirst into a musketeer who was leaving Monsieur de Tréville’s chambers by a side door. D’Artagnan crashed into his shoulder, causing him to howl with pain.

  “Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, turning to resume his course, “excuse me, but I’m in a hurry.”

  His foot was on the first stair when a hand of iron seized him by the sword-belt and stopped him.

  “You’re in a hurry!” cried the musketeer, pale as a shroud. “On this pretext you crash into me, then say, ‘Excuse me.’ And you believe that to be sufficient? Not at all, my young man. Do you suppose that because you’ve heard Monsieur de Tréville speak to us a little cavalierly today that others may treat us the same way? Don’t fool yourself, my lad—you are not Monsieur de Tréville.”

  “My faith!” replied d’Artagnan, recognizing Athos who, after being bandaged by the doctor, was returning to his lodging. “My faith, I didn’t mean to do it, so I said ‘Excuse me.’ It seems to me that’s enough. I repeat, perhaps once too often, that on my word of honor I really must hurry. Let go of me, I beg, and let me go about my business.”

  “Monsieur,” said Athos, letting him go, “you are unmannerly. One can see that you come from somewhere a long way off.”

  D’Artagnan had already leaped down three or four stairs when this remark stopped him short. “Morbleu, Monsieur!” said he. “However far I’ve come, I warn you, you’re not the man to give me a lesson in manners.”

  “Perhaps,” said Athos.

  “You know, if I weren’t in such a hurry,” snapped d’Artagnan, “if I weren’t running after someone . . .”

  “Monsieur Hasty, you can find me without running. Do you understand me?”

  “And where is that, if you please?”

  “Near the Carmelite convent.”

  “Time?”

  “About noon.”

  “Very well, I’ll be there about noon!”

  “Don’t keep me waiting, for I warn you, at a quarter past twelve I’ll be running after you, and I’ll cut off your ears on my way.”

  “Good!” cried d’Artagnan. “I’ll be there ten minutes before twelve.”

  And he set off running like the devil, still hoping to catch up with the stranger, whose slow pace couldn’t have carried him far.

  But at the courtyard gate Porthos was talking with the soldier on guard. Between them there was just enough space for a man to pass; d’Artagnan thought he could make it and sprang forward to dart between them. But he hadn’t taken the wind into account. As he passed, the wind blew out Porthos’s long cloak, and d’Artagnan ran full into it. Porthos must have had powerful reasons for retaining his cloak, for instead of letting it go, he pulled it toward him, so stubbornly that d’Artagnan was rolled up in the velvet.

  D’Artagnan, hearing the musketeer’s oaths, tried to wriggle through the folds to escape from the blinding cloak. He particularly wanted to avoid damaging that magnificent baldric mentioned earlier; however, on timidly opening his eyes, he found his nose pressed right between Porthos’s shoulders, exactly on the back of the baldric.

  Alas! Like so many things in this world, which are nothing but appearances, the baldric was golden in front, but only simple buff leather behind. The vainglorious Porthos couldn’t afford a completely gilded baldric,20 but he had at least half of one. The pretended head cold that necessitated his wearin
g a cloak was now explained.

  “Vertubleu!” cried Porthos, struggling to rid himself of d’Artagnan, who was squirming against his back. “You must be crazy to run into people like that!”

  “Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, reappearing under the shoulder of the giant, “but I’m in a great hurry! I’m running after someone, and . . .”

  “Do you always run with your eyes closed?” demanded Porthos.

  “No,” replied d’Artagnan, piqued. “No, and thanks to my eyes, I can see what others don’t.”

  Porthos wasn’t sure if he understood this, but he understood it well enough to get angry. “Monsieur,” he said, “I warn you, if you go running into musketeers, you’re liable to get thrashed.”

  “Thrashed, Monsieur!” said d’Artagnan. “Strong words.”

  “Strong words become a man who’s used to looking his enemies in the face.”

  “Well, by God! I know now why you don’t turn your back on them!” And the young man, delighted with his joke, laughed loudly as he walked away.

  Porthos, foaming with rage, made a grab for d’Artagnan. “Later, later,” cried d’Artagnan, dodging, “when you’re not wearing your cloak!”

  “At one o’clock then, behind the Luxembourg!”21

  “Very well, at one o’clock,” d’Artagnan called, turning the corner.

  But d’Artagnan could see no one down either street. However slowly the stranger had walked, he’d nonetheless gotten away, or perhaps entered a house. D’Artagnan asked about the man of everyone he met all the way down to the ferry, then returned up the Rue de Seine to the Croix-Rouge: nothing, absolutely nothing. However, at least the sweat of the chase cooled his angry heart.

  He reflected on recent events, numerous and boding nothing but ill. It was barely eleven o’clock in the morning, yet he was already disgraced before Monsieur de Tréville, who couldn’t help but find d’Artagnan’s manner of leaving him a bit cavalier. In addition, he could look forward to duels with two men who were each capable of killing three d’Artagnans—with two King’s Musketeers, no less, two of those heroes whom he esteemed in his heart and mind above all others.

  It was a sad situation. Sure of being killed by Athos, the young man wasn’t worried overmuch about Porthos. However, as hope is the last thing extinguished in a man’s heart, he hoped to somehow survive these two duels, though probably with terrible wounds. In case he survived, he chided himself with the following reproaches: “What a harebrained lout I am! That brave and unfortunate Athos was wounded in the shoulder right where I ran into him, headfirst like some ram. The only thing that astonishes me is that he didn’t kill me on the spot. He certainly had the right—the pain I caused him must have been atrocious. And as for Porthos! Oh! As for Porthos—my faith, that’s just too funny!”

  And in spite of himself the young man began to laugh, while looking around to make sure no one was offended by his solitary laughter. “As for Porthos, that’s droll, droll—but I’m still a brainless dolt. Does one run into people without warning? No! And does one look under cloaks to see what isn’t there? No! He’d certainly have pardoned me if I hadn’t mentioned that cursed baldric, though I did so in veiled terms—no, not veiled, cloaked! Ha!

  “Oh, cursed Gascon that I am, my wit takes me from the frying pan to the fire. D’Artagnan, mon ami,” he continued, amiably lecturing himself, “if you escape, which seems unlikely, henceforth you must take the path of perfect politeness. You must be admired for it, even cited as an example. To be obliging and polite doesn’t make one a coward. Look at Aramis: charm and grace personified. Does anyone call Aramis a coward? No, certainly not, and from now on he’ll be my model. Ah! There he is now!”

  D’Artagnan, as he walked and talked with himself, had arrived within a few paces of the hôtel of Madame de Combalet, and in front of that mansion he saw Aramis in conversation with three gentlemen of the French Guards. Aramis likewise saw d’Artagnan; but he hadn’t forgotten that earlier Monsieur de Tréville had dressed him down in front of this young man, and that having seen the musketeers rebuked he was likely to be insolent, so he pretended not to see him. D’Artagnan, on the contrary, full of his plans of conciliation and courtesy, approached the four men and gave them a deep bow, smiling hopefully. All conversation immediately stopped. Aramis nodded his head slightly but didn’t smile.

  D’Artagnan was not so naïve as to fail to see he was intruding, but he was also too ignorant of the manners of the beau monde to know how to gracefully withdraw from a false position, which is where a man usually finds himself when he interrupts a conversation that doesn’t concern him. He was looking for the least awkward way out when he noticed that Aramis had his foot on a handkerchief, which he’d doubtless dropped by mistake. Here was a way to repair his blunder! He knelt, and with the most gracious air he could manage, pulled the handkerchief from under the musketeer’s foot, in spite of the latter’s efforts to keep it there. Then d’Artagnan presented it to him, saying: “I think, Monsieur, that this is a handkerchief you would be sorry to lose.”

  The handkerchief was, in fact, richly embroidered, and had a coronet and arms on one of its corners. “Ah ha!” cried one of the guards. “Do you still insist, most discreet Aramis, that you’re not on good terms with Madame de Bois-Tracy, when that gracious lady has the kindness to lend you one of her handkerchiefs?”

  Aramis darted at d’Artagnan one of those looks that tell a man he’s acquired a mortal enemy, then said, resuming his mild air, “You are misled, Messieurs. This handkerchief isn’t mine, and I have no idea why monsieur here fancies he should return it to me rather than to one of you. As proof of what I say, here’s mine in my pocket.”

  At these words he pulled out his own handkerchief, which was very elegant, of fine cambric (though cambric was then very expensive), without arms, and ornamented with a single initial, that of its owner.

  D’Artagnan said nothing, realizing he’d blundered again. But Aramis’s friends, unconvinced by his denial, were not so restrained. One of them said to the young musketeer, with pretended seriousness, “If it’s as you say, my dear Aramis, or rather as you pretend, I’d have to reclaim it myself—for as you know, Bois-Tracy is one of my closest friends, and I can’t allow his wife’s personal items to be waved around like trophies.”

  “Your critique is poorly phrased,” replied Aramis, “and while I recognize the justice of your claim, I refuse it on account of its form.”

  “The fact is,” hazarded d’Artagnan timidly, “I didn’t see the handkerchief fall from Monsieur Aramis’s pocket. He had his foot on it, that’s all, and I thought, since the handkerchief was under his foot, it must be his.”

  “And you were deceived, my dear sir,” replied Aramis coldly, unappeased. Then, turning to the guard who’d declared himself Bois-Tracy’s friend, he said, “Moreover, it occurs to me, my dear close friend of Bois-Tracy, that I should keep it, as he’s as much my friend as yours. Besides, the handkerchief could just as easily have fallen from your pocket as from mine.”

  “No, upon my honor!” cried the guard.

  “You’re about to swear upon your honor, and I upon my word, and then it will be clear that one of us is lying. I have a better idea, Montaran. Let’s each take half of it.”

  “Of the handkerchief?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s perfect!” cried the other two guards. “The Judgment of King Solomon! Aramis, you’re wisdom itself!”

  The young men burst out laughing, and naturally nothing more was made of the matter. The conversation over, the three guards and the musketeer cordially shook hands and parted, the guards going one way, Aramis the other.

  “Now’s the time to make my peace with this gentleman,” d’Artagnan said to himself, having stood to one side during the end of the conversation. With this noble intention he approached Aramis, who was going his way without paying any attention to him. “Monsieur,” d’Artagnan said to him, “you’ll pardon me, I hope.”

  “Monsieur,
” interrupted Aramis, “permit me to observe that you have not behaved in this matter as a man of good breeding should have.”

  “What, Monsieur!” cried d’Artagnan. “Do you suppose . . .”

  “I suppose, Monsieur, that you are not a fool, and that you know very well, despite being from Gascony, that people don’t tread on handkerchiefs for no reason. What the devil! Paris isn’t paved with cambric.”

  “Monsieur, it’s a mistake to try to humiliate me,” said d’Artagnan, whose natural combativeness began to outweigh his peaceful intentions. “I am from Gascony, it’s true, and since you know it, I don’t have to tell you that Gascons have short fuses. When they ask once to be pardoned, even for a folly, they believe they’ve already done twice as much as they should.”

  “Monsieur,” responded Aramis, “my remarks to you are not for the purpose of seeking a quarrel. I’m no ruffian, merely a temporary musketeer, thank God! I don’t fight unless forced to, and always with great reluctance. However, this time the affair is serious, as a lady has been compromised by you.”

  “Say, rather, by us,” said d’Artagnan.

  “Why did you so oafishly return me the handkerchief?”

  “Why did you so carelessly let it fall?”

  “I’ve said, and I repeat, Monsieur, that the handkerchief didn’t fall from my pocket.”

  “Then you’re twice a liar, Monsieur, for I saw it fall!”