After a thorough search of the person arrested, the interrogations almost always began with the following questions:
“Has Madame Bonacieux sent anything to you for her husband, or for any other person?”
“Has Monsieur Bonacieux sent anything to you for his wife, or for any other person?”
“Has either of them confided anything to you by word of mouth?”
“If they knew anything definite, they wouldn’t be asking these questions,” d’Artagnan said to himself. “Now, what is it they want to know? They want to know if the Duke of Buckingham is in Paris, and if he has set up an interview with the queen.” D’Artagnan was quite taken with this idea, which seemed to him quite likely, based on what he’d heard.
Meanwhile, the mousetrap continued, and so did the vigilance of d’Artagnan. On the evening of the day after the arrest of poor Bonacieux, as the bells of Saint-Sulpice47 began to toll nine o’clock, Athos had just left d’Artagnan to go call on Monsieur de Tréville, and Planchet was beginning his nightly task of making the bed. D’Artagnan heard a knock on the street door below, followed by the sound of the door opening, then immediately closing again. Someone was taken in the mousetrap.
D’Artagnan sprang to his eavesdropping post, lay down on the floor and listened. He heard cries, then groans that someone tried to stifle. There was no sign of an interrogation.
“The devil!” said d’Artagnan to himself. “It seems to me this must be the missing wife. They’re searching her, but she’s resisting . . . they’re using force! The dogs!”
D’Artagnan could hardly restrain himself from racing downstairs to her rescue, despite his resolutions of prudence. “Why won’t you listen?” cried the unfortunate woman. “I tell you I’m Madame Bonacieux, the mistress of the house! I belong to the queen!”
“Madame Bonacieux! I was right!” murmured d’Artagnan. “Am I so lucky as to have found the woman everyone’s looking for?”
The thought was immediately confirmed: “This is the woman we’ve been waiting for,” said one of the bailiffs. She tried to speak again, but her voice was muffled. Thuds and crashes echoed from the walls, indicating the victim was resisting as well as a single woman could resist four men. D’Artagnan heard her say, “Ah! No, Messieurs! Plea . . .” before her voice was reduced to inarticulate sounds.
“They’re gagging her! They’re going to carry her off,” cried d’Artagnan, and straightened like an unstrung bow. “My sword! Good, it’s at my side. Planchet!”
“Monsieur?”
“Run and find Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. One of them must be at home, maybe all of them. They must grab their weapons and come here as fast as they can. No, wait—Athos is at Monsieur de Tréville’s.”
“But where are you going, Monsieur, where are you going?”
“Out the window! It’s quickest. You, put back the tiles, sweep the floor, run out the door, and do what I said.”
“Oh! Monsieur, Monsieur, you’re going to kill yourself,” cried Planchet.
“Be quiet, you idiot,” said d’Artagnan. And grabbing hold of the windowsill, he clambered out and let himself drop from the first floor. Fortunately this was no great height, so he landed without mishap. He immediately went to knock on Bonacieux’s door, thinking, I’ll catch myself in this mousetrap, and woe to any cats who try to pounce on a mouse like me.
At the sound of the door-knocker, the tumult inside ceased. Footsteps approached, the door opened, and d’Artagnan, with naked sword, launched himself into Master Bonacieux’s front room. The door, attached to a spring, closed itself behind him.
Then those neighbors who lived near the unfortunate house of Bonacieux heard shouts, stamping, a clash of swords, and a prolonged shattering of furniture. The ones who went to their windows to learn the cause of this commotion were rewarded with the sight of the door opening to emit four men in black clothes. They didn’t so much run out as fly, like frightened crows, leaving shreds of their black plumage on the ground and on the corners of the furniture that came hurtling after them.
D’Artagnan was victorious—without too much trouble, it must be said, for only one of the bailiffs had been armed, and he’d defended himself solely for form’s sake. The other three had tried to knock d’Artagnan down with chairs, stools, and hurled pots, but two or three scratches from the Gascon’s sword put an end to that. A few moments after he’d entered, d’Artagnan was sole master of the field of battle.
The neighbors, who had opened their windows with the sangfroid usual to Parisians in those times of perpetual riots and street brawls, closed them again when they saw the four black-clad men in flight, since it appeared, for the moment, that all was over. Besides, it was getting late, and then as now they went to sleep early in the quarter of the Luxembourg.
D’Artagnan was now alone with Madame Bonacieux, and he turned to assist her. The poor woman had collapsed onto an armchair, half-fainting.
D’Artagnan took her in at a glance. She was a charming woman, aged twenty-five or twenty-six, a brunette with blue eyes, a nose slightly retroussé, beautiful teeth, and a complexion of rose and opal. However, that was the limit of any resemblance between the mercer’s wife and a lady of high rank. Her hands were white, but not delicate, and her feet didn’t bespeak a woman of quality. Fortunately, d’Artagnan wasn’t yet aware of such details.
As d’Artagnan examined Madame Bonacieux, he saw on the floor near her feet a fine batiste handkerchief. He automatically picked it up, and noted on one corner the same cipher he’d seen on the fallen handkerchief that had nearly set him and Aramis at each other’s throats. Since then, d’Artagnan had been suspicious of handkerchiefs bearing coats of arms, so without saying a word he replaced it in Madame Bonacieux’s pocket.
At that light touch, Madame Bonacieux regained her senses. She opened her eyes and looked around her, terrified, but saw only her apartment, and that she was alone with her liberator. She immediately held out her hands to him and smiled.
And Madame Bonacieux had the most charming smile in the world.
“Ah! Monsieur!” she said. “You’ve saved me. Permit me to thank you.”
“Madame,” said d’Artagnan, “I did only what any gentleman would do in my place. You owe me no thanks.”
“I do, Monsieur, I do, and I hope to prove to you that I’m not ungrateful. But what did those men want with me? I thought at first they were robbers! And why isn’t Monsieur Bonacieux here?”
“Madame, those men are far more dangerous than robbers. They’re agents of Monsieur le Cardinal. As for your husband, he’s not here because yesterday he was taken to the Bastille.”
“My husband, in the Bastille!” cried Madame Bonacieux. “Oh, my God! What did he do? The poor, dear man! He’s innocence itself!” And something like a smile touched the face of the still fearful young woman.
“What did he do, Madame?” said d’Artagnan. “I believe his only crime is to have the simultaneous good and bad fortune to be your husband.”
“But, Monsieur, you know then . . .”
“I know that you’ve been abducted, Madame.”
“But by whom? Do you know? Oh! If you know, tell me!”
“By a man aged forty to forty-five, with black hair, a dark complexion, and a scar on his left temple.”
“That’s him, that’s him! But his name?”
“That I can’t tell you.”
“And my husband knew I’d been abducted?”
“He was informed of it by a letter from the scoundrel himself.”
“And does he suspect what was behind it?” asked Madame Bonacieux, with some embarrassment.
“I believe he thought it was politics.”
“I agree with him—that’s what I’ve thought from the first. So dear Monsieur Bonacieux hasn’t suspected me for an instant of . . . ?”
“Oh, far from that, Madame. He’s proud of your talents, and even more so of your love.”
A second barely perceptible smile flickered across the rosy lip
s of the pretty young woman.
“But how did you get away?” continued d’Artagnan.
“I was certain from this morning as to why I’d been carried off, so I took advantage of a moment when they left me alone to use the drapes to climb down from the window. I thought my husband would be at home, so I rushed here first.”
“To put yourself under his protection?”
“Oh, no! Poor dear man, I know quite well he’s incapable of defending me; but there was another way he could help, and I wanted to tell him of it.”
“What’s that?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s not my secret.”
“In any case, this is hardly the place to share secrets,” said d’Artagnan. “The men I chased off will be back with reinforcements, and if they find us here, we’re lost. I’ve sent for three of my friends, but who knows if they’ll be at home?”
“Yes, yes, you’re right.” Madame Bonacieux shuddered, frightened anew. “We must go!” She took d’Artagnan’s arm and pulled him toward the door.
“Yes, but go where?” said d’Artagnan. “Where would we be safe?”
“First let’s get far from this house, and then we’ll see.” So the young woman and the young man left, without even bothering to close the door. They went down into the Rue des Fossoyeurs, hurried along the Rue de Vaugirard to the Rue des Fossés-Monsieur-le-Prince, and didn’t stop until they’d circled back around to the Place Saint-Sulpice.
“Now what?” asked d’Artagnan, “Is there some place you’d like me to conduct you?”
“I wish I knew,” said Madame Bonacieux. “I’d intended to send my husband to tell Monsieur de La Porte what had happened. I need to know what’s taken place in the Louvre in the last three days, and whether it’s safe for me to go there.”
“Well, I can certainly go to inform Monsieur de La Porte,” said d’Artagnan.
“You could, but unfortunately, while they know Monsieur Bonacieux at the Louvre and would let him pass, they don’t know you. They’d shut the door on you.”
D’Artagnan smiled. “Don’t tell me there isn’t some postern gate at the Louvre where there’s a concierge who’s devoted to you, and who will respond to a password.”
Madame Bonacieux looked searchingly at the young man. “And if that’s so, and I give you this password, will you immediately forget it once it’s been used?”
“Word of honor, faith of a gentleman!” said d’Artagnan, with a ring of truth that convinced the young woman.
“Take it then; I believe you,” she said. “You have the air of a brave young man, and maybe you’ll be lucky enough to find a reward for such devotion.”
“Reward or no, I’ll do everything in good conscience that I can do to serve the king and help the queen,” said d’Artagnan. “Regard me as a friend, and put me to use.”
“But me—where shall I go in the meantime?”
“Is there some friend’s house where you can stay until Monsieur de La Porte sends for you?”
“No. I can trust no one.”
“Wait,” said d’Artagnan, “we’re almost at Athos’s door. Yes, that’s it.”
“Who is Athos?”
“One of my friends.”
“But what if he’s home, and sees me?”
“He’s not home, and anyway, I’ll take the key away with me once you’ve entered his apartment.”
“But what if he returns?”
“He won’t return; but if he does, I’ll arrange to have him told that I brought a woman for a visit, and that she’s in his rooms.”
“But that will compromise me terribly!”
“What does that matter at this point? No one here knows you, and in our situation, we’re going to have to put up with an inconvenience or two.”
“Then let’s go to your friend’s house. Where does he live?”
“Rue Férou, two steps from here.”
“Come on.”
And the pair resumed their course. As d’Artagnan had foreseen, Athos wasn’t home. He took the key, which was customarily given to him as a friend of the household, climbed the stairs, and introduced Madame Bonacieux into that small apartment that has already been described.
“Make yourself at home,” he said. “When I leave, lock the door from the inside and open it to no one, unless you hear three knocks, like this.” He knocked three times, two rather hard taps close together, followed after a pause by a final light tap.
“I have it,” said Madame Bonacieux. “Now, it’s my turn to give you my instructions.”
“I’m listening.”
“Present yourself at the postern of the Louvre, on the Quai de l’École side, and ask for Germain.”
“Very well. After that?”
“He’ll ask you what you want, and you’ll answer with these words: ‘Tours and Brussels.’ That will put him at your orders.”
“And what do I order him to do?”
“To go look for Monsieur de La Porte, the queen’s valet de chambre.”
“And when he’s found him, and Monsieur de La Porte has come?”
“You will send him to me.”
“That’s fine—but where and how will I see you again?”
“Do you want to see me again?”
“Very much!”
“Well, leave that in my care, and rest easy.”
“I can count on your word?”
“You can count on it.”
D’Artagnan bowed to Madame Bonacieux, fixing the most amorous look he could on her charming petite person. As he descended the stairs, he heard the door close behind him and the double turn of the lock. In two bounds he was at the Louvre: as he entered the postern of l’École, ten o’clock was sounding. All the events so far related had occurred in a single hour.
Everything turned out as predicted by Madame Bonacieux. At the password, Germain bowed, and ten minutes later, La Porte was at the gatehouse. In a few words, d’Artagnan conveyed what had happened, and where Madame Bonacieux was to be found. La Porte made sure of the address by having d’Artagnan repeat it twice, then left at a run. However, he’d gone barely ten paces before he returned.
“Young man,” he said to d’Artagnan, “some advice for you.”
“Which is?”
“There could be trouble for you over these events.”
“You believe so?”
“Yes. Do you have some friend whose clock runs slow?”
“Perhaps. What then?”
“Go see him, so he can be a witness that you were at his house at half-past nine. In the law, that’s called an alibi.”
D’Artagnan found this advice sensible. He took to his heels and hurried to the Hôtel de Tréville. Instead of passing through the antechamber with everyone else, he asked to enter through Monsieur de Tréville’s study. As d’Artagnan was one of the habitués of the hôtel, no one saw any difficulty about this. A footman went to inform the captain that his young countryman had something important to say to him and desired a private audience.
Five minutes later, Monsieur de Tréville entered the study. He asked d’Artagnan what he could do for him, and what brought him to visit at such a late hour.
“Your pardon, Monsieur!” said d’Artagnan, who had used his time alone in the room to turn back the hands of the clock by three-quarters of an hour. “I thought that, since it’s only twenty-five past nine, I had plenty of time.”
“Twenty-five past nine!” said Monsieur de Tréville, looking at his clock. “But that’s impossible!”
“Just see, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan.
“So it is,” said Tréville. “I would have thought it was later. Well, then, what would you have of me?”
D’Artagnan launched into a long story about the queen, recounting his worries about Her Majesty, and relating what he’d heard about the cardinal’s plans for the Duke of Buckingham. It was all told with a self-possession and aplomb that quite convinced Monsieur de Tréville of his sincerity, the more so since Tréville himself had remarked
that there was something fresh going on between the cardinal, the king, and the queen.
As the clock struck ten, Monsieur de Tréville thanked d’Artagnan for his information, reminded him to keep always at heart the service of the king and queen, and then returned to his salon. D’Artagnan took his leave, but at the foot of the stairs, he told the guard on duty that he’d forgotten his cane. He ran back up, reentered the study, and with a turn of his finger set the clock back to its proper time. Certain now that no one would notice it had been disturbed, and that he had a witness to prove his alibi, he descended the stairs and found his way to the street.
XI
The Plot Thickens
With his alibi established, d’Artagnan left Monsieur de Tréville’s and walked the deserted streets toward his home, taking the longest possible way. What was on d’Artagnan’s mind on his roundabout route, as he looked up at the stars in the sky, sometimes sighing, sometimes smiling?
He was thinking of Madame Bonacieux, who was almost an ideal lover for an apprentice musketeer. She was pretty, mysterious, and initiated into the inner secrets of the Court, which added the spice of drama to her youth and grace. And he suspected her of being attracted to him as well—an irresistible appeal to a novice lover. Moreover, d’Artagnan had rescued her from interrogation at the hands of Richelieu’s demons, a service that inspired the sort of gratitude that can so easily assume a tender character.
So quickly do dreams soar on the wings of fancy that d’Artagnan already imagined he soon might be approached by some messenger from the young woman, a page who would pass him a letter setting a rendezvous, or a gold chain or diamond. Young cavaliers, as has already been shown, accepted gifts from their king without a qualm; in those times of easy morals it was no more shameful for them to accept presents from their mistresses, who often gave them souvenirs both precious and durable, as if trying to defy the transience of emotion with the solidity of gifts.
It was no shame for a man to make his way with the help of women. Those who were only beautiful gave of their beauty, which is doubtless the origin of the proverb, “The most beautiful girl in the world can give no more than she has.” Those who were rich gave of their wealth, and many a hero of that gallant epoch would never have won his spurs in the first place, nor his battles thereafter, without the heavy purse that his mistress had attached to his saddlebow.
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