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

by Alexandre Dumas

  But again d’Artagnan shook his head. For people toward whom he had only to reach out his hand, His Eminence rarely had recourse to such means.

  But it could be the revenge of Milady.

  Yes—that was the most probable cause.

  He tried in vain to remember anything about the appearance of the assassins, but he’d left in such a hurry he hadn’t had time to notice anything.

  “Ah, my dear friends,” murmured d’Artagnan, “where are you? How badly I need you now!”

  That night was a bad one for d’Artagnan. Three or four times he awoke with a start, imagining someone sneaking up on him with a dagger. But the darkness passed without incident and dawn finally arrived.

  However, d’Artagnan suspected that trouble was only deferred, not disposed of. He spent all day in his quarters, telling himself he was staying in because of bad weather.

  The following morning, at nine o’clock, the drums beat to arms. Prince Gaston, the Duc d’Orléans, was inspecting their post. The guards ran to take up their weapons and d’Artagnan took his place in the ranks of his comrades.

  The king’s younger brother walked down the line of troops, then Monsieur des Essarts and all the superior officers approached him to pay their respects.

  After a minute or two it appeared to d’Artagnan that Monsieur des Essarts made a sign to him to approach. Afraid he might be mistaken, he waited for a second signal from his commander; when it came, he left the ranks and advanced to receive his orders.

  “Monsieur is going to ask for some bold men for a dangerous mission, one that will bring honor to those who accomplish it,” des Essarts said. “I signaled to you so you would be ready.”

  “Merci, mon Capitaine!” replied d’Artagnan, who asked nothing better than to distinguish himself under the eyes of the lieutenant general.

  In fact, the Rochelois had made a sortie during the night and had retaken a bastion that the Royal Army had overrun just two days before. The task at hand was a reconnaissance to determine how well the bastion was defended.

  Shortly, Monsieur raised his voice and said, “I need three or four volunteers for a mission, led by a reliable man.”

  “As for the reliable man, I have him right here, Monseigneur,” said Monsieur des Essarts, indicating d’Artagnan, “and as for the volunteers, Monseigneur has but to announce his intentions and the men will not fail to step up.”

  “Four men of stout heart who will risk death with me!” cried d’Artagnan, raising his sword.

  Two of his comrades from the guards immediately leaped forward. Two other soldiers joined them, and that filled the bill. D’Artagnan refused to take any others, as he thought the first volunteers should have their chance at all the glory.

  After the Rochelois had retaken the bastion, no one knew whether they’d evacuated it or left a garrison. It was up to d’Artagnan’s squad to get close enough to find out.

  D’Artagnan set out with his four comrades, following a trench that led toward the enemy. The two guards marched alongside d’Artagnan and the pair of soldiers took up the rear.

  In this way, under cover of revetments, they were able to follow a series of trenches until they were within a hundred paces of the bastion. There, d’Artagnan turned and saw that the two soldiers had disappeared. He assumed they’d lost heart and stayed somewhere behind.

  At the angle of the counterscarp, the three remaining comrades found themselves within sixty paces of the bastion. They saw no one, and the bastion looked abandoned.

  They were discussing whether they should go any farther, when suddenly smoke erupted from the stone stronghold and a dozen balls whistled past d’Artagnan and his companions.

  They’d learned what they needed to know: the bastion was occupied! Staying any longer would have been both dangerous and useless; d’Artagnan and the two guards turned their backs and commenced a retreat that strongly resembled a flight.

  As they arrived at the corner of the protective counterscarp one of the guards fell with a ball through his chest. The other, still whole, continued his way toward the camp.

  But d’Artagnan wasn’t willing to abandon his comrade. As he bent to raise him and help him back to their lines, two shots rang out: one struck the head of the wounded guard and the other flattened on a rock, having passed within two inches of d’Artagnan.

  The young man spun around, for this attack couldn’t have come from the bastion, which was now masked by the angle of the trench. He remembered the two soldiers who’d seemingly abandoned him—and also the two assassins of the ambush on the road. Determined this time to learn what he was up against, he fell across the body of his comrade as if dead.

  Almost immediately, within thirty paces of him, he saw two heads appear above the edge of an abandoned trench. D’Artagnan’s suspicions were confirmed: it was the two soldiers, who’d followed him for the sole purpose of assassinating him, in hopes that the young man’s death would be blamed on the enemy.

  To make sure he wasn’t just wounded, in which case he might return to denounce their crime, they approached to finish him off. Fortunately for d’Artagnan, they were taken in by his ruse and hadn’t reloaded their weapons.

  When they were within ten paces of him, d’Artagnan, who in falling had taken care to keep hold of his sword, leaped up and sprang toward them.

  The assassins knew that if they fled toward camp without having killed their man they were lost, so their first thought was to defect to the enemy. One of them grabbed his gun by the barrel to use it as a club, and swung a terrible blow at d’Artagnan. He evaded the blow by jumping aside, but this left an opening for the bandit, who immediately raced for the bastion. But the Rochelois who were manning it were unaware of his intentions; they fired on him, and a ball broke his shoulder.

  Meanwhile, d’Artagnan had thrown himself at the second soldier, attacking him with his sword. The fight didn’t last long, as the wretch had nothing with which to defend himself but an empty arquebus. The guard’s blade slid down the barrel of the useless weapon and went through the assassin’s thigh. He fell, and in a moment d’Artagnan’s point was at his throat.

  “Don’t kill me!” cried the bandit. “Mercy! Mercy, Monsieur Officer, and I’ll tell you everything!”

  D’Artagnan withheld his thrust. “You’d trade your secret for your life? Is it worth it?”

  “It’s not just my life, it’s yours—if life has value to a man of twenty-two, handsome and brave, who has his whole future ahead of him!”

  “You wretch!” said d’Artagnan. “Talk, and talk fast. Who hired you to assassinate me?”

  “A woman—I don’t know her name, but she’s called Milady.”

  “How do you know that, if you don’t know her?”

  “My partner knew her, and that’s what he called her. She did all her business with him, not me. He even has a letter from her in his pocket. He said she attached a great deal of importance to you.”

  “How did you get involved in this business?”

  “My partner asked me if I’d join in on the deal, and I said I would.”

  “And how much did she pay you for this little assassination?”

  “A hundred gold crowns.”

  “Eh bien!” The young man laughed. “I am worth something to her! A hundred crowns! That’s quite a sum to two miserable dogs like you; I can see why you would jump at it. All right, I’ll pardon you—but on one condition.”

  “What’s that?” asked the soldier anxiously, as he could see that all was not yet over.

  “That you go and retrieve the letter your partner has in his pocket.”

  “But that’s just another way of killing me!” the bandit cried. “How can I go and fetch that letter under the guns of the bastion?”

  “Nonetheless, you’re going to go retrieve it, or you can be sure I’ll kill you with my own hand.”

  “Mercy, Monsieur! Have pity, in the name of that young lady you love, and whom maybe you think is dead—but she isn’t!” the bandit c
ried. He collapsed to his knees and leaned on one hand, for his strength was draining out with his blood.

  “And how do you know there’s a young woman I love, or that I thought she was dead?” demanded d’Artagnan.

  “By that letter my partner has in his pocket.”

  “Then you see I must have that letter,” said d’Artagnan, “so no more delay, no more hesitation, or no matter how reluctant I am to soil my blade twice with the blood of a wretch like you, I swear on the word of a gentleman . . .”

  At these words d’Artagnan made a gesture so menacing that the wounded man leaped up. “Stop! Stop!” he cried, his terror giving him strength. “I’ll go! I’ll go!”

  D’Artagnan took the soldier’s arquebus, then drove him toward his comrade by prodding him from behind with the point of his sword.

  It was a frightful thing to see the wounded ruffian, pale in the face of death, smearing a long trail of blood behind him as he tried to crawl unnoticed toward his fallen accomplice, some twenty paces away. His face, covered with cold sweat, was so etched with terror that d’Artagnan pitied him. “Enough! Stay there,” he said, with a look of disdain. “I’ll go—and show you the difference between a man of heart and a coward like you.”

  Then, quick on his feet, keeping a sharp eye on the movements of the enemy, and taking full advantage of the contours of the terrain, d’Artagnan made his way to the body of the second soldier.

  There were two ways of handling it: search him on the spot, or carry him, using his body as a shield, and search him in the trench. D’Artagnan chose the second option, lifting the assassin onto his shoulders just as the enemy opened fire.

  A jolt, the sound of three balls lodging in flesh, a final cry, and an agonized shudder told d’Artagnan that the man who’d sought to kill him had ended by saving his life.

  D’Artagnan regained the safety of the trench and dropped the cadaver next to the wounded man, who was pale as death.

  The inventory of the dead man’s possessions began immediately: a broad leather wallet; a purse, apparently containing part of the bandit’s payment; a dice-cup and dice—that was the whole of his legacy.

  D’Artagnan let the dead man keep his dice-cup, threw the purse to the wounded bandit, and then eagerly opened the wallet. Among some unimportant papers he found the following letter, for which he’d risked his life:

  Since you’ve lost track of the woman, who’s now safely in some convent you should never have allowed her to reach, try at least not to fail with the man. If you do, you know that I have a long reach, and you’ll repay me my hundred crowns many times over.

  It was unsigned. Nonetheless, it was clearly from the hand of Milady, so he stowed it away as a piece of evidence. Then, still safe behind the angle of the trench, he began to interrogate the wounded man. The bandit confessed that he’d been hired, along with his now-dead partner, to abduct a young woman who was going to leave Paris through the barrier of La Villette—but having stopped for a drink at a cabaret, they’d missed the carriage by ten minutes.

  “But what were you supposed to do with this woman?” gasped d’Artagnan.

  “We were to take her to a hôtel in the Place Royale.”

  “Yes, that’s it,” murmured d’Artagnan, “Milady’s own home.”

  The young man shuddered as he comprehended what a terrible thirst for vengeance drove this woman to destroy him and all those who loved him. The story also showed how well versed she was in the affairs of the Court, since she seemed to know everything that went on. No doubt she owed much of that knowledge to the cardinal.

  But beyond that he understood, with a dawning joy, that the queen must have discovered the prison where poor Madame Bonacieux had been paying the price of her devotion, and that she’d freed her from that prison. The letter he’d received from the young woman, and her passage like an apparition along the road to Chaillot, were now explained.

  That meant, as Athos had predicted, that someday it would be possible to meet Madame Bonacieux again! After all, a convent was not impregnable.

  At this, d’Artagnan’s heart was filled with forgiveness. He turned to the wounded man, who’d been anxiously watching the series of expressions on his face, and offered him his arm. “Come on, then—I’m not going to abandon you,” he said. “Lean on me, and let’s return to camp.”

  “Oh?” said the wounded man, who found it hard to believe in such generosity. “So you can have me hanged, right?”

  “Not at all. I’m going to spare your life once again,” d’Artagnan said. “You have my word.”

  The wounded man fell to his knees and tried to kiss d’Artagnan’s feet, but the young man, who no longer had any good reason to remain near the enemy, cut off this expression of gratitude.

  The guard who had fled at the first volley from the Rochelois had announced the death of his four comrades. So the regiment was both astonished and delighted when d’Artagnan reappeared safe and sound.

  D’Artagnan recounted the perils they’d encountered and the death of the other soldier, inventing a sortie by the enemy to explain his companion’s sword wound. This story grew in the retelling until it became a veritable triumph. By the end of the day the whole army was talking about the exploit, and the lieutenant general, Monsieur, sent d’Artagnan his compliments.

  Every great effort has its reward, and for d’Artagnan it was the restoration of his lost serenity. D’Artagnan thought such serenity was justified, since one of his two enemies was dead and the other was now devoted to him.

  But this only showed how little d’Artagnan understood Milady.

  XLII

  The Anjou Wine

  After the distressing news of the king’s illness, one day word of his recovery began to circulate through the camp. It was said he was eager to arrive in person at the siege, and that as soon as he could mount his horse he would take the road again.

  Meanwhile, Monsieur his brother did precious little, as he knew that once the king arrived he could expect to be replaced as commander by the Duc d’Angoulême, Bassompierre, or Schomberg, all of whom were vying for the post. He wasted days with probes and patrols, unwilling to risk attempting to drive the English from the Isle of Ré, where they continued to besiege the Citadel of Saint-Martin and the Fort de La Prée, just as the French besieged La Rochelle.

  D’Artagnan had regained his self-confidence, as always happens when a danger is past, especially when that danger seems to have vanished. Only one thing worried him: he’d heard no news of his three friends.

  But one morning early in October he received a letter, posted from Villeroy, that explained everything:

  Monsieur d’Artagnan,

  Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, after ordering a fine revel in my house, and enjoying themselves with vigor, were so boisterous that the provost of the château, a very rigid individual, has incarcerated them for several days. However, at their request, I am sending you a dozen bottles of my Anjou wine, for which they have developed a great regard. They beg that you will drink their health in this, their favorite wine.

  Thus I have done, and am, Monsieur, with the greatest respect,

  Your most humble and obedient servant,

  GODEAU,

  Host to Messieurs the Musketeers

  “Well, isn’t that fine!” cried d’Artagnan. “They think of me in their fêtes, while I think of them in my funk. Nonetheless, I’ll certainly drink to their health, and with all my heart—but I won’t drink alone.”

  D’Artagnan went to find a couple of guards with whom he was more friendly than most to invite them to share with him this delicious little wine of Anjou. But one of the guards was engaged that evening and the other was busy the next, so the gathering was set for the day after that.

  D’Artagnan sent the dozen bottles of wine to the guards’ commissary with a request that they take good care of them. On the appointed day, d’Artagnan sent Planchet off at nine in the morning to begin the preparations for dinner, which was set for noon.
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  Planchet, puffed up with pride at being elevated to the dignity of maître d’hôtel, resolved to oversee the event intelligently and thoroughly. To this end he enlisted the aid of Fourreau, the valet of one of his master’s guests, as well as the false soldier who’d tried to murder d’Artagnan, but who since had entered d’Artagnan’s service and become a sort of assistant to Planchet.

  At the appointed hour the two guests arrived, took their places, and the food was brought to the table. Planchet served, towel on arm; Fourreau uncorked the bottles; and Brisemont, the wounded faux-soldier, poured the wine into carafes. The wine appeared to have been shaken up during its journey; the first bottle seemed to have quite a bit of sediment at the bottom, so Brisemont poured the lees into a glass. D’Artagnan gave him permission to drink it, as the poor devil still hadn’t recovered all his strength.

  The guests, having finished the soup, were about to raise the first glass of wine to their lips, when suddenly a cannon sounded from Fort Louis or Port-Neuf. The guards, who thought this might herald some unexpected attack either from the besieged Rochelois or the English, immediately sprang to their swords. D’Artagnan did the same, and all three ran out to report to their posts.

  But they were scarcely out of the mess hall before they discovered the cause of the uproar: cries of “Vive le Roi! Vive Monsieur le Cardinal!” resounded on every side, and drums were beating throughout the camp.

  In fact, it was the king: impatient to reach La Rochelle, he’d pressed forward by forced marches and had just arrived, with his entire household and a reinforcement of ten thousand troops. He was preceded, and followed, by his musketeers. D’Artagnan gave them a grand salute from the ranks of his company. His friends spotted him there, and Monsieur de Tréville recognized him immediately.

  The welcome ceremony was soon over and the four friends found themselves arm in arm once again.

  “By God!” cried d’Artagnan. “You couldn’t have come at a better time—the dinner hasn’t even had time to get cold. Eh, Messieurs?” he added, turning to the two guards, whom he introduced to his friends.