The Three Musketeers

by Alexandre Dumas

“Oh, Madame!” cried the young woman, falling to her knees, “Upon my soul, I’m ready to die for Your Majesty!”

  This cry came from the bottom of her heart, like her first words, and couldn’t possibly be a deception.

  “You’re right, Madame,” continued Madame Bonacieux, “there are traitors here; but, by the holy name of the Virgin, I swear to you that no one is more devoted to Your Majesty than I am. Those studs the king demanded, you gave them to the Duke of Buckingham, didn’t you? I think those studs were kept in a little rosewood box that he carried away under his arm. Am I right? Isn’t that the case?”

  “Oh, my God! My God!” murmured the queen, teeth chattering with fright.

  “Very well,” said Madame Bonacieux, “we must get the studs back.”

  “Yes, of course, that’s it,” cried the queen. “But how to do it?”

  “Someone must be sent to the duke.”

  “But who? Who can I trust?”

  “Have confidence in me, Madame. Do me that honor, my queen, and I’ll find a messenger!”

  “But I must write!”

  “Oh, yes! That’s indispensable. I need a few words from the hand of Your Majesty, under your private seal.”

  “But these few words could be my condemnation. It would mean divorce—exile!”

  “Yes, if they fall into the wrong hands. But I will answer for it that these words are delivered to their address.”

  “Dear God! Must I then place my life, my honor, my reputation, all in your hands?”

  “Yes! Yes, Madame, you must, and I will save them all!”

  “But how? Tell me that, at least.”

  “My husband was set free a few days ago, though I haven’t yet had time to see him. He’s a brave and honest man with neither hatred nor love for anyone. He’ll do whatever I want: he’ll leave on an order from me, without knowing what he carries; he’ll deliver Your Majesty’s letter to its address, without even knowing it’s from Your Majesty.”

  The queen impulsively took up the young woman’s hands and looked at her as if to read into the depths of her heart. Seeing nothing but sincerity in her beautiful eyes, she embraced her tenderly.

  “Do it, then,” she said to her, “and you will have saved my life, and my honor!”

  “Please, Madame, don’t exaggerate my service—I’m happy to do anything for you. Your Majesty’s honor is above question, there’s nothing for me to save. You’re just the victim of horrible schemes.”

  “That’s true, my child, you’re quite right,” said the queen.

  “Then give me that letter, Madame. We have little time.”

  The queen ran to a small table on which she found ink, paper, and pens. She wrote two lines, sealed the letter with her private seal, and gave it to Madame Bonacieux.

  “But we’ve forgotten one absolute necessity,” said the queen.

  “What’s that?”

  “Money.”

  Madame Bonacieux blushed. “Yes, that’s true,” she said, “and I confess to Your Majesty that my husband . . .”

  “Your husband has none, is that what you want to say?”

  “No, he does have some, but he’s very greedy—that’s his one vice. However, Your Majesty shouldn’t be concerned—we’ll find the means.”

  “I have none, either,” said the queen. (Those who’ve read the memoirs of Madame de Motteville62 won’t be surprised by this.) “But wait a moment.”

  Anne of Austria ran to her jewelry box.

  “Here,” she said, “here is a ring of great value,63 or so I’ve been told. It comes from my brother, the King of Spain, and it’s mine to dispose of. Take this ring and convert it into cash, and then your husband can depart.”

  “Within the hour, you shall be obeyed.”

  “You see the address,” added the queen, speaking so low she could barely be heard. “To Milord the Duke of Buckingham, in London.”

  “The letter shall be delivered to him personally.”

  “Generous child!” cried Anne.

  Madame Bonacieux kissed the queen’s hands, cached the paper in her bosom, and disappeared with the lightness of a bird.

  Ten minutes later she was at home. As she’d told the queen, she hadn’t seen her husband since his release, so she was ignorant of his new opinion of the cardinal, a change effected by His Eminence’s money and flattery, and confirmed since by two or three visits from the Comte de Rochefort, who was Bonacieux’s new best friend. Rochefort had persuaded him there was nothing behind the abduction of his wife beyond mere political precaution.

  Madame Bonacieux found Monsieur Bonacieux alone, struggling to put his house back in order. On his return he’d found all but a few pieces of furniture broken and his wardrobes mostly empty, Justice not being one of the three things that King Solomon had stated leave no traces of their passage. The housemaid was gone, having fled upon the arrest of her master. The poor girl had been so overcome by fright she hadn’t stopped running from Paris until she reached her native province of Burgundy.

  Upon returning to his house, the worthy mercer had sent the news of his happy return to his wife, and his wife had replied with congratulations, assuring him she would pay him a visit at the first moment she could steal away from her duties.

  That first moment had taken five days to come about. Under other circumstances, this would have seemed rather long to Master Bonacieux; but his visit with the cardinal, and the visits from Rochefort, had given him plenty of subjects for reflection—and, as they say, nothing passes time like reflection.

  This was especially true in the case of Bonacieux, whose reflections were all rose-colored. Rochefort called him his friend, his “dear Bonacieux,” and kept telling him that the cardinal thought the world of him. The mercer already saw himself on the road to fortune and honors.

  For her part, Madame Bonacieux had also reflected, but, it must be said, on something completely other than ambition. Despite herself, her thoughts constantly returned to that handsome young guardsman, so brave, and apparently so much in love. Married at eighteen to Monsieur Bonacieux, she’d always socialized with her husband’s friends, who lacked all attraction for a young woman whose heart was far above her position. Madame Bonacieux had remained indifferent to men and hadn’t fallen prey to any vulgar seductions. However, in this period, the title of “gentleman” had an irresistible allure for people of the middle class—and d’Artagnan was a gentleman. What’s more, he wore the uniform of the French Guards, which, after the musketeers, was the uniform most admired by the ladies. Plus, he was handsome, young, and adventurous, and he spoke of love like a man who loved, and who longed to be loved in return. This was more than enough to turn the head of a twenty-three-year-old, and Madame Bonacieux had just arrived at that happy age.

  Though they hadn’t seen each other for more than a week, a week during which serious events had occurred for both of them, the two spouses found each other somewhat preoccupied. Nevertheless, Monsieur Bonacieux lit up with real joy and advanced toward his wife with open arms.

  Madame Bonacieux presented her cheek to him. “Let’s talk a bit,” she said.

  “What?” Bonacieux was astonished.

  “Yes, let’s talk. I have something of the greatest importance to tell you.”

  “Indeed, and so do I—I have some rather serious questions of my own. Explain to me this abduction, if you would.”

  “There’s no point in going into that now,” said Madame Bonacieux.

  “What’s this important thing, then? Is it about my imprisonment?”

  “No, I didn’t know about that until the day it happened. But since you weren’t guilty of any crime, and weren’t an accomplice in any intrigue—since you know nothing, in fact, that might compromise either you or anyone else, I didn’t consider your imprisonment particularly important.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Madame!” replied Bonacieux, wounded at how little interest his wife had in his troubles. “Do you know I was plunged for a day and a night into a d
ungeon of the Bastille?”

  “Well, a day and a night soon pass away. Let’s put your captivity behind us, and return to the thing that brings me to you.”

  “What! The thing that brings you to me? Wasn’t it the desire to see a husband you haven’t seen for eight days?” asked the mercer, stung to the quick.

  “Of course, that most of all—but something else besides.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s very important, and our fortune may depend on it.”

  “Our fortune has already greatly changed since I saw you last, Madame Bonacieux. In fact, a few months from now, it wouldn’t surprise me if we were the envy of a lot of people.”

  “That’s right, especially if you follow the instructions I’m about to give you.”

  “To me?”

  “Yes, to you. There’s a good and holy mission to accomplish, Monsieur—with plenty of money to be gained at the same time.”

  Madame Bonacieux knew that by mentioning money to her husband, she was preying on his weakness. But a man who has talked for ten minutes with Cardinal Richelieu, even if he’s only a mercer, is not the same man. “Plenty of money to be gained!” said Bonacieux, pursing his lips.

  “Yes, quite a bit.”

  “How much, do you think?”

  “Maybe a thousand pistoles.”

  “So what you have to ask of me is very serious, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “What must be done?”

  “You must leave right away on a journey. I’ll give you a letter that you mustn’t part with for any reason, and which you will deliver into the proper hands at journey’s end.”

  “And where am I supposed to go?”

  “To London.”

  “Me—to London! Come now, you’re joking, I have no business in London.”

  “But others need you to go there.”

  “Who are these ‘others’? I warn you, I’ll do nothing blindly. I intend to know not only what I’m exposing myself to, but who I’m being exposed for.”

  “An illustrious person sends you, an illustrious person awaits you, and the reward will exceed your desires. That’s all I’m able to promise you.”

  “Intrigues, intrigues, always more intrigues! I won’t have any more to do with such things, thank you very much. That course is clear to me, thanks to Monsieur le Cardinal.”

  “The cardinal!” cried Madame Bonacieux. “Have you seen the cardinal?”

  “He sent for me,” the mercer answered proudly.

  “And I suppose you went when he called! You’re so thoughtless.”

  “I must say I had little choice about whether to go or not, as I was taken between two guards. I must also say that, as I didn’t yet know His Eminence, if I’d been able to avoid the visit, I’d have been happy to do so.”

  “Were you mistreated, then? Did he threaten you?”

  “He gave me his hand, and called me his friend—his friend! Do you hear, Madame? I am the friend of the Great Cardinal!”

  “The Great Cardinal!”

  “Would you care to dispute that title, Madame?”

  “I’m not about to dispute anything with him. But I warn you, the favor of a minister doesn’t last—you’d be crazy to attach yourself to him. There are powers above the cardinal that don’t depend on the whim of one man or the outcome of events. These are the powers we should commit ourselves to.”

  “I’m sorry for it, Madame, but I acknowledge no power higher than that of the great man whom I have the honor to serve.”

  “You serve the cardinal?”

  “Yes, Madame. And as his servant I won’t permit you to conspire in plots against the security of the State, or to serve the intrigues of a woman who isn’t really French, who is Spanish at heart. Fortunately, the Great Cardinal is among us, vigilant against conspiracy, seeing to the bottom of every plot.”

  Bonacieux was repeating, word for word, something he’d heard from the Comte de Rochefort. Whatever its source, it made his poor wife shudder. She’d counted on her husband, had answered for him to the queen, and now she trembled at how close she’d come to confiding in him, and at how helpless she was. However, knowing how weak her husband was, and moreover how greedy, she still hoped to bend him to her will.

  “So, you’re a Cardinalist, Monsieur!” she sneered. “You’d join with those who manhandle your wife and insult your queen!”

  “Private interests are as nothing before the interests of all. I am for those who preserve the State!” said Bonacieux emphatically. This was another of Rochefort’s phrases, and he’d been waiting for an opportunity to use it.

  “And what do you know about this ‘State’ you talk about?” said Madame Bonacieux, shrugging her shoulders. “Be content to be a simple bourgeois, and ally with the side that offers the best return.”

  “Oh? Oh?” said Bonacieux, slapping a bulging purse that jingled with money. “What do you say to that, Madame Know-it-all?”

  “Where did that money come from?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “From the cardinal?”

  “From him, and from my friend the Comte de Rochefort.”

  “The Comte de Rochefort! But he’s the one who abducted me!”

  “That’s as may be, Madame.”

  “And you accept money from that man?”

  “Haven’t you said yourself that the abduction was purely political?”

  “Yes, but their goal was to make me betray my mistress, to torture me into a confession that could compromise the honor, and maybe the life, of my august mistress!”

  “Madame,” replied Bonacieux, “your august mistress is a perfidious Spaniard. That which the cardinal does, is well done.”

  “Monsieur,” shrilled the young woman, “I knew you were cowardly, greedy, and stupid, but I didn’t know you were villainous!”

  “Madame!” Bonacieux was taken aback. He’d never seen his wife lose her temper, and he recoiled from her anger. “Madame, what are you saying?”

  “I say you’re a miserable wretch!” continued Madame Bonacieux, who saw she was regaining the upper hand. “You’d meddle with politics, would you? And worse, with Cardinalist politics! For money, you’d sell yourself, body and soul, to the devil!”

  “No, to the cardinal.”

  “It’s the same thing!” cried the young woman. “Who says Richelieu, says Satan.”

  “Hush, Madame, hush! Someone might hear you!”

  “Yes, you’re right. I’d be ashamed if anyone knew of your cowardice.”

  “All right, all right! What do you need me to do? Come, now!”

  “I told you: you must leave this instant, and faithfully complete the mission I give you. If you do that, I’ll forget everything, I’ll forgive everything—and besides,” she held out her hand, “I’ll give you all my love.”

  Bonacieux was moved. He was greedy, and a coward, but he loved his wife. A man of fifty can’t be angry for long with a wife of twenty-three.

  Madame Bonacieux saw that he hesitated. “Come, have you decided?” she said.

  “But, my dear love, think a little about what you’re asking of me. London is far from Paris, very far, and this mission may not be without its dangers.”

  “What does that matter, if you avoid them?”

  The mercer gulped. “In that case, Madame Bonacieux,” he said, “I definitely refuse. Intrigues frighten me! I’ve seen the Bastille, I have. Brrr! It’s frightful, the Bastille! Just thinking of it makes my flesh crawl. They threatened me with torture! Do you know how they torture you in the Bastille? They force wooden wedges between your legs until your bones break! No, no, I’m definitely not going. Morbleu, why don’t you go yourself? In truth, I think I’ve been wrong about you—I think really you must be a man, and a crazy one, at that!”

  “And you, you’re a woman, a low-down, miserable, and stupid woman! So, you’re afraid, are you? Well, if you don’t leave this instant, I’ll have you arrested on the queen’s orders, and you’ll be put
back in that Bastille you’re so afraid of.”

  This gave Bonacieux something to think about. In his mind, he weighed the wrath of the cardinal against that of the queen—but there was no comparison, the wrath of the cardinal was infinitely weightier. “Go ahead, have me arrested in the name of the queen,” he said. “I’ll simply protest it to His Eminence.”

  At this, Madame Bonacieux saw that she’d overdone it, and was horrified by how far she’d let the matter go. She looked for one terrified moment at that stupid face, fortified with the invincible resolve of the fool who is governed by fear. “Very well, let it go!” she said. “Maybe you’re right, when all is said and done. After all, a man knows more about politics than a woman—and moreover, you, Monsieur Bonacieux, are a man who’s spoken with the cardinal. And yet, it’s hard,” she added, “that my husband, a man whose affection I thought I could count on, treats me so disgracefully and won’t comply with any of my little whims.”

  “Your little whims lead you too far,” replied Bonacieux triumphantly, “and I don’t trust them.”

  “I’ll give it up, then,” the young woman sighed. “It’s just as well; say no more about it.”

  “You might, at least, tell me what I was supposed to do in London,” said Bonacieux, remembering a little late that Rochefort had urged him to try to discover his wife’s secrets.

  “There’s no point in telling you that,” said the young woman, whose instinctive mistrust impelled her to draw back. “It was just a matter of one of those little nothings that women like, a small gift that could have brought a large return.”

  But the more the young woman evaded the subject, the more Bonacieux thought that what she was refusing to tell him must be important. He decided he’d better go to Rochefort right away and tell him that the queen was looking for a messenger to send to London.

  “Pardon me for leaving so suddenly, my dear Madame Bonacieux,” he said, “but, not knowing that you were coming to see me, I’d set up a rendezvous with one of my friends. I’ll be right back— just wait for me for half a minute, and I’ll return as soon as I’ve finished with my friend. Then, since it’s growing late, I’ll escort you back to the Louvre.”

  “A thousand thanks, Monsieur,” replied Madame Bonacieux, “but as you aren’t brave enough to be of any use to me whatsoever, I’d just as soon return to the Louvre alone.”