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

by Alexandre Dumas

  D’Artagnan, whose inquiring and penetrating mind we are familiar with, had never been able to discern the cause of this melancholy, or to detect a pattern in these moods, despite his fascination with the subject. Athos never received any letters and never had any secret business he kept from his friends. Wine couldn’t be blamed for his dark moods, for he drank only to fight his melancholy—though the remedy only made him more somber. His excess of the evil humors couldn’t be attributed to gambling, for unlike Porthos, who trumpeted his changes of fortune with songs or oaths, Athos was as impassive when he won as when he lost. Among the musketeers he’d been known in a single evening to win three thousand pistoles, then lose down to a gold-embroidered belt that had seen better days, then regain it all, plus a hundred crowns over, without his shapely eyebrows rising or falling a hair, his hands losing their pearly pallor, or his conversation, which was agreeable that evening, ceasing for a moment to be calm and amiable.

  Nor was it, as with our neighbors the English, the influence of the weather that darkened his outlook, for his melancholy deepened as the weather improved: for Athos, the most terrible months were June and July.

  He couldn’t care less about the present; he shrugged his shoulders when people spoke of the future; his secret must be in the past—or so d’Artagnan thought.

  This mysterious shadow colored Athos’s whole personality, rendering him all the more fascinating. Even at his most drunken he never revealed anything, by eye or by mouth, no matter how adroitly he might be questioned.

  “Well,” muttered d’Artagnan, “poor Athos might even now be dead—thanks to me, for I’m the one who dragged him into this affair. He never knew the start of it, will never know how it ended, and never had anything to gain from it anyway.”

  “Not to mention, Monsieur,” added Planchet, “that we probably owe our lives to him. Do you recall how he shouted, ‘Ride on, d’Artagnan, ride on! I’m taken’? And after firing his pistols, what a terrible racket he made with his sword? It sounded like twenty men—or rather, twenty devils!”

  These words only made d’Artagnan even more eager. He urged his horse on—pointlessly, as it was already carrying its rider at a gallop.

  About eleven in the morning they came in sight of Amiens. By half-past eleven they were at the door of the fatal inn.

  D’Artagnan had given a lot of thought to what sort of revenge he might take on the treacherous host, fantasies that had been at least some consolation. Now he entered the inn with his hat pulled down over his eyes, his left hand on the pommel of his sword, while with his right he gestured menacingly with his riding crop.

  The host advanced, bowing. “Remember me?” d’Artagnan said.

  “I have not that honor, Monseigneur,” the host replied, dazzled by the brilliant equipage on d’Artagnan’s mount and by the youth’s high-and-mighty manner.

  “You really don’t know me?”

  “No, Monseigneur!”

  “Eh bien, a couple of words will restore your memory. What have you done with that gentleman who, about fifteen days ago, you had the audacity to accuse of counterfeiting?”

  The host paled at d’Artagnan’s menacing attitude, which was echoed by Planchet. “Ah, Monseigneur! Don’t even bring it up!” he cried in a pathetic tone. “Oh, Monsieur! How I’ve paid for that mistake! Of all the rotten luck!”

  “That gentleman, I say—what’s happened to him?”

  “Only deign to listen to me, Monsieur, and go easy on me. Sit down, please, I beg you.”

  D’Artagnan, mute with anger and anxiety, sat like a judge about to pronounce sentence. Planchet stood behind him, looking fierce.

  “Here’s the story, Monseigneur,” the host said, trembling. “I remember you now—it was you who departed during the unfortunate dispute with the gentleman you mentioned.”

  “Yes, that was me. So you see you can expect no mercy if you fail to tell me the whole truth.”

  “Just listen to me, and you’ll know everything.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’d been warned by the authorities that a notorious counterfeiter would stop at my inn with several companions, all disguised as guards or musketeers. Your horses, your lackeys, your descriptions were given to me complete.”

  “And so?” said d’Artagnan, who had a good idea where such exact descriptions had come from.

  “So, following the orders of the authorities, who sent me a reinforcement of six men, I took such measures as I thought would assure me of getting hold of these counterfeiters.”

  “Watch your language!” said d’Artagnan, deeply wounded by the word “counterfeiter.”

  “Pardon me, Monseigneur, for saying such things, but it’s part of my sad story. The authorities had put the fear of God into me, and you know that an innkeeper has to stay on the good side of the authorities.” “I ask one more time: the gentleman, where is he? What happened to him? Is he dead? Is he alive?”

  “Patience, Monseigneur, we’re getting there. So, things fell out as you know, including your rapid departure, which seemed,” added the host, with a finesse that didn’t escape d’Artagnan, “to confirm your description. Monsieur your friend defended himself desperately. His lackey, who’d had the bad luck to quarrel with some of those reinforcements, who were disguised as stable boys . . .”

  “You miserable wretch!” cried d’Artagnan. “You were all in it together! I don’t know what stops me from exterminating the lot of you!”

  “Alas! No, Monseigneur, we weren’t all in on it, as you’ll soon see. Monsieur your friend—and pardon my not calling him by the honorable name he doubtless carries, as I’m still ignorant of it— monsieur your friend, having put two men hors de combat with two pistol shots, fell back defending himself with his sword, which crippled another one of my men, and stunned me with a blow from the flat of it.”

  “Get to the point, you torturer!” said d’Artagnan. “Athos, what happened to Athos?”

  “While beating a retreat, as I told Monseigneur, he found the stairs to the cellar behind him, and as the door was open, he darted inside, took out the key, and barricaded the door. After that, since we knew where to find him, we left him alone.”

  “I see,” said d’Artagnan. “You didn’t necessarily want to kill him, just imprison him.”

  “God’s name! Imprison him, Monseigneur? I swear, he imprisoned himself. But not before he’d done some rough work: one man shot dead, and two others badly wounded. The dead man and the two wounded were carried off by their comrades, and I haven’t heard of any of them since. As for myself, when I regained my wits, I went to find Monsieur the Governor of Amiens. I told him everything that had happened and asked him what I should do with the prisoner. But Monsieur the Governor told me he knew absolutely nothing about the matter, that the orders I’d received hadn’t come from him, and that if I dared to mention his name in connection with this mess he’d have me hanged! It seems I’d made a mistake, Monsieur: I’d arrested the wrong man, and the one I should have arrested got away.”

  “But Athos?” cried d’Artagnan, more impatient than ever upon hearing how the authorities had abandoned the matter. “What happened to Athos?”

  “Of course, I was anxious to amend the wrongs I’d done the prisoner,” replied the innkeeper, “so I made my way to the cellar to set him free. But, Monsieur, he was no longer a man, he was a devil! He declared that my offer of liberty was a trap, and that before he came out he intended to impose his own conditions. I told him, very humbly—for I couldn’t help but realize the trouble I was in by having laid hands on one of His Majesty’s Musketeers—I told him I was quite ready to submit to his conditions.

  “‘First,’ he said, ‘send me my lackey, fully armed.’

  “We hurried to obey him, for as you can imagine, Monsieur, we were eager to do whatever your friend wanted. Monsieur Grimaud— who told us his name, though he doesn’t talk much—Monsieur Grimaud went down to the cellar, wounded though he was. Then his master, after taking
him in, re-barricaded the door and ordered us back upstairs.”

  “So where is he now?” cried d’Artagnan.

  “In the cellar, Monsieur.”

  “How can that be, you wretch? Have you kept him in the cellar all this time?”

  “Merciful heaven! No, Monsieur. Us, keep him in the cellar? You don’t know what he’s up to in that cellar! Oh, if only you could get him out, Monsieur, I’d be grateful all my life—you’d be my patron saint!”

  “So he’s still there, and that’s where I’ll find him?”

  “I don’t doubt it, Monsieur—he won’t leave! Every day we pass some bread to him through the window vent on a pitchfork, as well as some meat when he asks for it . . . but it’s not bread or meat that he consumes the most of. I once tried to go in there with two of my serving boys, but he flew into a terrible fury. I heard the sound of him loading his pistols while his lackey loaded his musketoon. When we asked what they intended to do, the master said that he and his lackey had forty rounds between them and they planned to fire every shot before he’d allow a single one of us to set foot in the cellar. So, Monsieur, I went and complained to the Governor, who told me I got only what I deserved, and that it ought to teach me not to insult honorable gentlemen who stopped at my inn.”

  “So, since then . . . ?” said d’Artagnan, unable to keep from laughing at the host’s pathetic expression.

  “Since then, Monsieur, our lives have been miserable. For Monsieur must know that all our provisions are in that cellar: the wine, in bottles and barrels, the beer, the oil, spices, lard, sausages, and so on. And since we’re not allowed down there, we have to refuse food and drink to our customers, so that day by day our business is going to hell. One more week of your friend in my cellar and we’re ruined.”

  “As is only just, you buffoon. Couldn’t you tell, by looking at us, that we were gents of quality and not counterfeiters?”

  “Yes, you’re right, of course, Monsieur,” said the host. “But wait, there he goes again!”

  “Someone provoked him, no doubt,” said d’Artagnan.

  “But we couldn’t help disturbing him! We’ve got these two English gentlemen who’ve just arrived.”

  “So what?”

  “Well, the English like good wine, as you probably know, Monsieur, and these have demanded our best. My wife has begged Monsieur Athos for permission to enter to satisfy these messieurs, but he’s refused, like always. Ah! Merciful heaven! There he goes again, louder than ever!”

  In fact, d’Artagnan could hear an uproar from the direction of the cellar. He rose and, preceded by the hand-wringing host, and followed by Planchet, who was armed with his musketoon, they approached the source of the commotion.

  The two English gentlemen were fed up. “We’ve had a long ride and we’re dying of hunger and thirst!” cried one of them, in very good French, though with a foreign accent. “It’s sheer tyranny that this madman won’t allow these good people access to their own wine. Come on! Let’s break down the door, and if he persists in his madness, well . . . we’ll just have to kill him.”

  “Relax, Messieurs,” said d’Artagnan, drawing his pistols from his belt. “Let’s not kill anyone, if you please.”

  “Excellent,” said Athos’s calm voice from beyond the door. “But why not let them come in, these child-eaters, and see what happens?”

  Brave though they undoubtedly were, the two English gentlemen looked at each other and hesitated. It was almost as if they stood before the cave of a ravenous ogre, one of those gigantic creatures of legend into whose cavern none could enter with impunity.

  There was a moment of silence; but in the end the two Englishmen were too proud to retreat. The more impatient of the two descended the five or six steps of the stairs and gave the door a kick that could crack a wall.

  “Planchet,” said d’Artagnan, cocking his pistols, “I’ll take the one at the top of the steps and you take the one below. Now, gentlemen, if you want a fight, I’ll give you one!”

  “My God,” cried the disembodied voice of Athos, “That sounds like d’Artagnan!”

  “In person,” said d’Artagnan, raising his own voice. “It’s me, my friend.”

  “Very well, then,” said Athos, “together we’ll do some work on these door-breakers!”

  The gentlemen had drawn their swords, but they found themselves taken between two fires. They hesitated a moment more, but as before, pride won out, and a second kick split the door-panel from top to bottom.

  “Stand aside, d’Artagnan,” cried Athos, “I’m going to fire.”

  “Messieurs!” said d’Artagnan, who never stopped thinking. “Athos, be patient a moment. Messieurs, consider! You’re making a bad move—you’re just going to be shot full of holes. My lackey and I have three shots at you, and you’ll get as many from the cellar. Then we have our swords, and I assure you, my friend and I are quite passable with the blades. Let me handle this for both sides. You’ll have something to drink soon enough, I give you my word.”

  “If there’s any left,” jeered the voice of Athos.

  The innkeeper felt a cold chill run down his spine. “If there’s any left!” he murmured.

  “What the devil! Of course there’s some left,” said d’Artagnan. “Those two can’t possibly have drunk the whole cellar. Take my word for it, gentlemen, and return your swords to their scabbards.”

  “All right, if you put your pistols back in your belt.”

  “Gladly.” And d’Artagnan set the example. He made a sign to Planchet to uncock his musketoon.

  The Englishmen, convinced by this, sheathed their swords, though not without some surliness. They were then told the story of Athos’s imprisonment, and as they were truly gentlemen, they held the host accountable.

  “Now, Messieurs,” said d’Artagnan, “go back up to your room and, inside ten minutes, you’ll have everything you want—I’ll answer for it.” The Englishmen bowed and departed.

  “Now that it’s just me, my dear Athos, pray open the door,” said d’Artagnan.

  “This instant,” said Athos. They heard the sound of planks being tossed aside and beams groaning, as the besieged demolished his own counterscarps and barricades. A minute later the gashed door was thrust aside and the pale face of Athos appeared, taking in the environs with a quick glance.

  D’Artagnan grabbed him by the shoulders and embraced him tenderly. He then tried to draw Athos out of his damp lair, but was surprised when Athos staggered. “Are you wounded?” he said.

  “Wounded? Not the least in the world. I’m drunk, that’s all—and no man has ever done a better job of it! God’s life, my host, but since I’ve been down here, I must have drunk at least a hundred and fifty bottles.”

  “The Lord have mercy!” cried the host. “If the lackey has drunk half as much as the master, I’m ruined!”

  “Grimaud is a lackey from a good house and would never presume to imitate his master. He drank only from the barrels. But you know, I don’t think he remembered to put the bung back. Hear that? It’s running.”

  D’Artagnan broke into a laugh while the host went from chills to fever. Meanwhile, Grimaud appeared behind his master, musketoon on his shoulder, his head shaking like one of those drunken satyrs in the paintings of Rubens. He was drenched fore and aft with what the host recognized as his best olive oil.

  The cortège crossed the public room and installed itself in the best chamber in the house, which d’Artagnan took by right of conquest. Meanwhile, the host and his wife grabbed lamps and ran down into the cellar, so long denied to them.

  A frightful scene was waiting beyond the fortifications that Athos had breached in order to escape, and which were built of logs, planks, and empty barrels, assembled according to the defensive arts of war. There they found, swimming in a sea of oil and wine, the bones of all the hams Athos and Grimaud had eaten. A pile of broken bottles cluttered the whole left-hand corner of the cellar, and a barrel, the bung of which was still open, was trickling ou
t the last drop of its blood. Of fifty sausages that had been hanging from the rafters, virtually none were left. As the poet of antiquity says, “The image of devastation and death reigned as over a field of battle.”

  Then the howling of the host and hostess was heard coming up through the floor. Even d’Artagnan was moved; Athos didn’t even turn his head.

  But grief was followed by fury. In his despair, the host armed himself with a spit and charged into the chamber taken by the two friends.

  “Some wine!” said Athos, on seeing the host.

  “Some wine!” cried the host, stupefied. “Some wine! But you’ve already drunk more than a hundred pistoles’ worth. I’m a ruined man! Lost! Annihilated!”

  “Bah!” said Athos. “We were thirsty.”

  “If you’d stopped at drinking, fine—but you broke the rest of the bottles!”

  “It’s your own fault—you pushed me onto a stack that tumbled down.”

  “All my oil is lost!”

  “Oil is a sovereign balm for wounds, and poor Grimaud had to treat the wounds you’d inflicted on him.”

  “All my sausages, gnawed!”

  “There are a lot of rats in that cellar.”

  “You’re going to pay me for everything!” railed the host.

  “You triple buffoon,” said Athos, getting up. But he immediately fell back; he’d reached the end of his strength.

  D’Artagnan came to his rescue, raising his riding crop menacingly. The host stumbled backward, then burst into tears. d’Artagnan said, “This ought to teach you to treat the guests God sends you more courteously.”

  “God! You mean the devil!”

  “My dear friend,” said d’Artagnan, “if you abuse our ears this way, all four of us are going to shut ourselves up in your cellar, and then we’ll see if things are as bad as you say.”

  “Oh, Messieurs! Messieurs,” said the host, “I confess I’ve been wrong, but have you no mercy? You are noblemen, and I’m just a poor innkeeper. Have pity on me!”

  “If you put it that way,” said Athos, “you’ll break my heart, and the tears will flow from my eyes like the wine ran from your barrels. We’re not the devils we seem to be. Come here, and let’s talk about it.”