The Three Musketeers

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Is there any wine worth drinking in this dive of yours?” asked Athos.

  “Pardieu! There’s your own, my friend,” replied d’Artagnan.

  “Our wine?” said Athos, perplexed.

  “Yes, the wine you sent me.”

  “We sent you some wine?”

  “As you well know—that little wine from the vineyards of Anjou.”

  “Yes, I know that wine well!”

  “It’s the wine you prefer, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely, when I can’t get champagne or chambertin.”

  “Well, we have neither champagne nor chambertin, so you’ll have to content yourselves with the Anjou.”

  “So we’ve sent for some Anjou wine, gourmets that we are?” said Porthos.

  “No, it’s the wine that you sent to me.”

  “Wine that we sent you?” said the three musketeers.

  “Aramis, did you send this wine?” asked Athos.

  “No. What about you, Porthos?”

  “No. Was it you, Athos?”

  “No.”

  “It was none of you—it was your host,” said d’Artagnan.

  “Our host?”

  “But yes! Godeau, your host in Villeroy.”

  “My faith! Who cares where it came from?” said Porthos. “Let’s try it, and if it’s good, let’s drink it.”

  “No,” said Athos. “Let’s not drink wine from an unknown source.”

  “Athos is right,” said d’Artagnan. “So none of you ordered Godeau to send me any wine?”

  “No! Nevertheless, you say he sent you some on our behalf?”

  “I have the letter right here!” said d’Artagnan. And he showed it to his comrades.

  “This is not his handwriting!” said Athos. “I’m familiar with it because before we left, I settled the company accounts with him.”

  “It’s a complete forgery!” said Porthos. “We were never incarcerated!”

  “Really, d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, in a tone of reproach, “how could you believe that we’d been boisterous, or caused a disturbance?”

  D’Artagnan paled, and a shudder ran through him.

  “You’re alarming me, boy,” Athos said, shocked into informality. “What’s happened here?”

  “Hurry, my friends!” cried d’Artagnan. “I’ve got a horrible suspicion this is a further revenge of that woman!”

  At this, it was Athos’s turn to blanch.

  D’Artagnan raced to the mess hall, followed by the three musketeers and the two guards.

  The first thing d’Artagnan saw as he entered was Brisemont, rolling on the ground in horrible convulsions. Planchet and Fourreau, pale as death, were trying to help him, but it was clear that all aid was futile: Brisemont’s features, contorted in agony, were those of a dying man.

  “You!” he cried, seeing d’Artagnan. “Agh! You traitor! You pretend to pardon me, then you poison me!”

  “Me!” cried d’Artagnan. “What are you saying?”

  “I say you gave me the wine, and you told me drink it, because you wanted to pay me back! Argh! It’s horrible!”

  “Don’t think that, Brisemont!” said d’Artagnan. “Don’t think that! I swear, I give you my word . . .”

  “God sees! God will punish you! Dear God, make him suffer someday as I do!”

  “I swear on the Gospel,” said d’Artagnan, kneeling down by the dying man, “I swear I didn’t know the wine was poisoned. I was going to drink it too!”

  “I don’t believe you,” said the soldier. And, in a final fit of agony, he died.

  “Horrible! Horrible!” murmured Athos, while Porthos shattered the bottles, and Aramis gave orders, a little bit late, to send for a confessor.

  “Oh, my friends!” said d’Artagnan. “Once again you’ve saved my life—and not just mine, but the lives of these gentlemen. Messieurs,” he continued, addressing the guards, “I have to ask you to keep silent about this incident. Persons of high rank may be involved in what you’ve seen, and if we make trouble it will just rebound on us.”

  “M-m-monsieur!” stammered Planchet, more dead than alive. “What a narrow escape I’ve had!”

  “Why, buffoon?” cried d’Artagnan. “Were you planning to drink my wine?”

  “To the health of the king, Monsieur! I was about to down a small glass, when Fourreau told me someone was calling for me.”

  “Hélas!” said Fourreau, teeth chattering with terror. “I wanted to get him out of the way so I could drink it myself!”

  “Messieurs,” d’Artagnan said to the guards, “I’m sure you can understand that a banquet after what has happened would be a pretty melancholy affair, so I beg you to accept my excuses and allow me to postpone the party to another day.”

  The guards bowed courteously and retired, seeing that the four friends wanted to be alone.

  Once the three musketeers and their young friend were on their own, they looked at one another in a way that showed they all understood the gravity of their situation.

  “First of all,” said Athos, “let’s find somewhere else to go. The dead make unpleasant company, especially those who’ve died a violent death.”

  “Planchet,” said d’Artagnan, “I commend the body of this poor devil to your care. See that he’s buried in holy ground. He committed a crime, it’s true—but he repented of it.”

  And the four friends left the room, leaving Planchet and Fourreau in charge of paying mortuary honors to Brisemont.

  Their host gave them another chamber, in which he served them hard-boiled eggs and water, which Athos himself went to draw from the fountain. In a few words, the background of the situation was explained to Porthos and Aramis.

  “So you see, friend,” d’Artagnan said to Athos, “it’s a war to the death.”

  Athos nodded. “Yes, I can see that. But do you really think she is behind it?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  “Nevertheless, I confess I still have my doubts.”

  “But the fleur-de-lys on her shoulder?”

  Athos shrugged. “She is some Englishwoman who committed a crime in France and was branded as punishment.”

  “Athos, I’m telling you, it’s your wife,” said d’Artagnan, lowering his voice. “Remember how much she resembles your description?”

  “But she must be dead! I hanged her so thoroughly.”

  D’Artagnan shook his head. “In any event, what are we to do?” he said.

  “We can’t remain like this, with a sword hanging eternally over our heads,” said Athos. “We must alter the situation.”

  “But how?”

  “Listen: you must find a way to meet with her. Tell her, ‘Peace, or war! On my word as a gentleman, I promise to say nothing against you, and do nothing against you—but on your side, I must have a solemn oath to remain neutral toward me. Otherwise, I’ll go the chancellor; I’ll go the king; I’ll go to the hangman! I’ll bring you up before the court, denounce you as a branded woman, put you on trial—and if you escape justice, well, on my word as a nobleman, I’ll kill you. I’ll corner you and kill you, as I’d kill a mad dog.’”

  “I like it as a plan,” said d’Artagnan, “but how can I manage to meet with her?”

  “Time, cher ami. Time will bring the opportunity, and opportunity is our harness to destiny. The more there is at stake, the more one gains by knowing how to wait.”

  “Certainly, Athos, but to wait, surrounded by assassins and poisoners . . .”

  “Bah!” said Athos. “God has preserved us till now, and God will continue to watch over us.”

  “Us, yes. But we’re men,” d’Artagnan muttered. “It’s our business to risk our lives. But she . . . !”

  “What she?” asked Athos.

  “Constance.”

  “Madame Bonacieux! Quite so,” said Athos. “My poor friend! I’d forgotten that you were in love.”

  “Yes, but didn’t you learn from that letter you found on the dead ruffian that she’s safe in a convent
?” Aramis said. “One can be quite well off in a convent—and as soon as the siege of La Rochelle is over, I promise you, for my part . . .”

  “Good!” said Athos. “Excellent, my dear Aramis. We all know your interest in religious matters.”

  “I am only a temporary musketeer,” Aramis said humbly.

  “And it’s a long while since he heard from his mistress,” Athos added in an undertone. “But we know all about that, and are careful to pay no attention.”

  “Well,” said Porthos, “this seems like a simple matter to me.”

  “Why so?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “Didn’t you say she’s in a convent?” replied Porthos.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, after the siege is over, we’ll carry her off from that convent.”

  “But first we have to find out what convent she’s in!”

  “That’s . . . true,” said Porthos.

  “I know,” said Athos. “You said, didn’t you, d’Artagnan, that it was the queen who sent her to this convent?”

  “Yes—or at least, so I believe.”

  “Well, this is where Porthos can assist us.”

  “How’s that?” said Porthos.

  “Why, through your marquise, or duchess, or princess, or whatever she is. She must have a long reach.”

  “Shush!” said Porthos, putting a finger to his lips. “I’m afraid she’s a Cardinalist. She mustn’t know anything about this.”

  “Then,” said Aramis, “I’ll undertake to see what I can find out.”

  “You, Aramis?” said his friends. “How is that?”

  “Through the Queen’s Almoner, who is a . . . close friend of mine,” Aramis said, blushing.

  And with that assurance, having finished their modest meal, the four friends separated, promising to meet again that same evening. D’Artagnan returned to the Minimes, and the three musketeers went to the king’s camp to find their own lodgings.

  XLIII

  The Inn at Colombier-Rouge

  Though scarcely arrived in camp, the king was eager to confront the enemy, as he had even more right than the cardinal to hate the Duke of Buckingham. He ordered the commitment of all his forces, first to drive the English from the Isle of Ré, and then to prosecute the siege of La Rochelle. But despite his urgency, progress was delayed by a quarrel that broke out, pitting Messieurs Bassompierre and Schomberg against the Duc d’Angoulême.

  Bassompierre and Schomberg were Marshals of France and claimed the right to command the army under the direct orders of the king. But the cardinal feared that Bassompierre, who was a Huguenot at heart, might be unwilling to press home attacks against the English and Rochelois, his brothers in religion. He supported the Duc d’Angoulême, and at his recommendation the king appointed Angoulême lieutenant general. Then, in order to keep the undeniably talented Bassompierre and Schomberg from deserting the siege in a huff, each had to be given a separate command of his own. Bassompierre took the quarter north of the city, from La Leu to Dompierre; the Duc d’Angoulême commanded the east, from Dompierre to Périgny; and Monsieur de Schomberg directed operations in the south, from Périgny to Angoulins.

  Monsieur’s quarters were at Dompierre. The king stayed sometimes at Etré, sometimes at La Jarrie. The cardinal’s lodgings were in the dunes, at the Pont de La Pierre, in a simple house with no entrenchments. Thus, Monsieur could keep an eye on Bassompierre; the king, on the Duc d’Angoulême; and the cardinal, on Monsieur de Schomberg.

  Once this arrangement was established, they took up the question of how to drive the English from Ré.

  Conditions were favorable. To be good soldiers, the English, above all, had to be well fed. With nothing to eat but salted meat and stale biscuits, many in their camp were sick. Worse, the sea, angry at this season on every coast, was daily wrecking some small ship or other, and the shore from the Pointe de l’Aiguillon to the trenches was littered at every tide with the debris of pinnaces, luggers, and sloops. So it was evident that sooner or later Buckingham, who persisted on the Île de Ré out of sheer stubbornness, would have to lift his siege, even if the king’s troops simply sat in their quarters.

  However, when Monsieur de Toiras on Ré reported preparations in the enemy camp for a new assault on Saint-Martin, the king decided to make an end of the affair, and gave the orders to mount a decisive attack.

  But this is not intended to be a history of the siege, only to report those events relevant to our story. In short, the expedition to relieve Ré was a success, to the great astonishment of the king and to the credit and glory of the cardinal. The English, driven back foot by foot, beaten in every encounter, and defeated on the causeway to the Isle of Loix, were obliged to take to their ships. They left two thousand men on the field of battle, including five colonels, three lieutenant colonels, two hundred and fifty captains, twenty gentlemen of rank, four cannons, and sixty flags and banners, which were taken to Paris by Claude de Saint-Simon95 and suspended with great pomp in the vault of Notre-Dame. Te Deums were sung in the camp and throughout France.

  The cardinal was left master of the field, able to prosecute the siege of La Rochelle without, for the moment at least, having anything to fear from the English.

  For the moment, that is.

  Then a man named Montagu, an envoy of the Duke of Buckingham, was captured carrying proof of an alliance between the Holy Roman Empire, Spain, England, and Lorraine—an alliance against France.

  Moreover, in Buckingham’s lodgings on Ré, which he’d been forced to abandon more hastily than expected, papers were found that confirmed this league, and which, as the cardinal asserted in his Memoirs, greatly compromised Madame de Chevreuse, and therefore the queen.

  It was on the cardinal that all responsibility fell—for one cannot be an all-powerful minister without responsibility. All the resources of his vast genius were employed night and day to oppose this threat, analyzing rumors and reports from all the great courts of Europe.

  The cardinal knew of Buckingham’s activities, all of which confirmed his hatred of Richelieu; if the league threatening France triumphed, the cardinal would fall from power. The Spanish and Austrian parties would gain representatives among the king’s ministers where now they had only sympathizers—and Richelieu, the prime minister, would be ruined. The king obeyed him like a child, but hated him as a child hates his master; if Richelieu failed, the king would abandon him to the combined vengeance of Monsieur and the queen. His fall would be hard—and France might fall with him. This is what he had to guard against.

  So the couriers, every day more numerous, came day and night to the small house at the Pont de La Pierre where the cardinal had established himself.

  There were monks, who appeared uncomfortable in their robes, and clearly belonged to the Church Militant; women dressed as pages, whose billowing trousers couldn’t quite conceal their rounded forms; and peasants with blackened hands but soft skin, savoring of the man of quality from a league away.

  And besides this, there were other, less agreeable visitors—for two or three times it was reported that attempts had been made to assassinate the cardinal.

  It’s true that it was said by His Eminence’s enemies that he himself had hired these maladroit assassins to give him an excuse to make reprisals—but it won’t do to believe everything said by ministers, or by their enemies.

  None of this prevented the cardinal, whom even his worst enemies never accused of lacking personal bravery, from making nocturnal excursions: sometimes to communicate important orders to the Duc d’Angoulême, sometimes for discussions with the king, and sometimes to confer with some messenger whom he preferred not to receive at his house.

  For their part, the men of the King’s Musketeers, who weren’t under strict orders and were not much involved with the siege, had time to enjoy life. This was particularly true for the Three Inseparables who, as friends of Monsieur de Tréville, had no trouble getting permission to remain outside the camp after curfew.

  One even
ing, when d’Artagnan was in the trenches and couldn’t accompany them, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, mounted on their warhorses, wrapped in their heavy cloaks, with their hands on the butts of their pistols, were returning from an inn Athos had discovered two days before on the road to La Leu, at Colombier-Rouge.96 They were on their way back to their camp, on guard for fear of ambush, when a quarter of a league from the village of Boisnar they thought they heard the sound of horses approaching. The three immediately halted, closed ranks, and waited, blocking the middle of the road. A moment later, as the moon appeared from behind a cloud, they saw two cavaliers come around a bend in the road. Seeing the musketeers, they likewise stopped, and seemed to be considering whether to continue forward or turn back. This hesitation raised the suspicions of the three friends. Athos advanced a few steps, and in a firm voice called out, “Who goes there?”

  “Who goes there, yourself?” replied one of the cavaliers.

  “That’s no response,” said Athos. “Who goes there? Reply, or we’ll charge you.”

  “Take care what you do, Messieurs!” said a voice that rang with the habit of command.

  “It’s some superior officer on his night rounds,” said Athos to his friends. “What would you like to do, Messieurs?”

  “Who are you?” called the same voice, in the same tone of command. “Respond at once, or you’ll regret your disobedience.”

  “King’s Musketeers!” called Athos, now even more convinced that this was a superior who had the right to ask questions.

  “What company?”

  “Company of Tréville.”

  “Advance and be recognized, and explain to me what you are doing here at this time of night.”

  The three companions advanced, somewhat abashed, as they were now sure they were dealing with someone who outranked them. They allowed Athos to continue to speak for them.

  One of the two cavaliers—the second one to speak—was ten paces ahead of his fellow. Athos signaled to Porthos and Aramis to hang back and advanced alone to meet him.

  “Pardon, mon Officier!” said Athos. “We had no idea whom we were dealing with, but as you see we were alert and on the guard.”