The Three Musketeers

by Alexandre Dumas

  “He knows who they are?”

  “Of course! Hasn’t he seen Monsieur d’Artagnan at my house?”

  “Oh, yes—that’s right. It sounds like it should all work out for the best . . . but we mustn’t go very far from here.”

  “Seven or eight leagues at the most, probably somewhere on the border. That way we can leave France at the first sign of trouble.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Wait.”

  “But they could arrive at any minute!”

  “My brother’s carriage will get here first.”

  “What if I’m not around when they come to get you—at dinner, or supper, for example?”

  “Here’s what you should do.”

  “What?”

  “Ask your good superior to let you take your meals with me, so you can be near me as much as possible.”

  “Will she permit it?”

  “What can it matter to her?”

  “All right! That way we won’t have to leave each other for a moment.”

  “Well, go down right now and ask her. I need to clear my head—I think I’ll take a walk around the garden.”

  “Go ahead. Where will I find you?”

  “There, in an hour.”

  “In an hour. Oh, you’re so kind, and I’m so grateful!”

  “How could I resist helping someone as lovely and as charming as you? Especially when you’re the beloved of one of my best friends!”

  “Dear d’Artagnan! Oh, how he’ll thank you!”

  “I hope so. So we’re agreed—let’s go on down.”

  “You’re going to the garden?”

  “Yes.”

  “Follow this corridor, go down the little stairs, and you’re there.” “Perfect! Thank you.”

  The two women exchanged warm smiles and parted.

  Milady had told the truth when she said she had to clear her head. Her hastily-concocted plans were in danger of getting inextricably tangled. She needed some time alone to get her thoughts in order. She thought she could see the shape of the immediate future, but she needed peace and quiet to organize her ideas and settle on a single plan.

  The most urgent matter was to get Madame Bonacieux out of the convent and away to some place of safekeeping. Once there, if necessary, she could be used as a hostage. Milady was beginning to have her doubts about the results of this dreadful conflict, in which her enemies were proving to be as persistent as she was relentless.

  She had that feeling one gets when there’s a storm coming on: the tempest was approaching, and it was going to be terrible.

  She kept returning to the critical importance of keeping Madame Bonacieux in her hands. To hold Madame Bonacieux was to hold d’Artagnan’s life, as the life of the woman he loved meant more to him than his own. If things went wrong, holding Madame Bonacieux would give her leverage.

  So the primary issue was settled: Madame Bonacieux, all unsuspecting, would go with her, and once they were installed at Armentières it would be easy to persuade her that d’Artagnan had never come to Béthune. In a fortnight, at most, Rochefort would return, which would give her two weeks to consider how best to avenge herself on the four musketeers. There would be no chance of being bored, thank God, as she’d have the sweetest pastime life could offer to a woman of her character: the perfection of a bloody vengeance.

  While considering all this, she was also surveying the terrain of the garden, memorizing its topography for future reference. Milady was like an experienced general who plans for both victory and defeat, and is prepared, depending on the outcome of the battle, to march forward or beat a retreat.

  At the end of an hour, she heard the soft voice of Madame Bonacieux calling her. The good abbess had naturally agreed to everything, and they were to take supper together right away.

  On reaching the courtyard, they heard the sound of a carriage stopping at the gate. “Do you hear that?” Milady said.

  “Yes, it sounds like a carriage,” replied Madame Bonacieux.

  “It’s the one my brother is sending us.”

  “Oh! My God!”

  “Come, now: courage!”

  The bell rang at the convent gate; it appeared Milady was right. “Go up to your room,” she said to Madame Bonacieux. “You must have some jewelry you want to take with you.”

  “I have his letters,” she said.

  “Well, go get them, and meet me in my room, where we’ll share a quick supper. We may have to travel part of the night and must keep up our strength.”

  “Good Lord!” said Madame Bonacieux, clapping her hand to her breast. “My heart is hammering so hard I can scarcely walk.”

  “Courage, Madame, courage! In a quarter of an hour, you’ll be safe—and remember, what you’re going to do is for him.”

  “Oh, yes—all for him! That’s all you had to say to restore my courage. Go, and I’ll be right with you.”

  Milady hastened to her room, where she found Rochefort’s lackey, and gave him his instructions.

  He was to wait at the gate, unless the musketeers appeared, in which case he was to leave at the gallop. In that event he was to circle around the convent and await Milady in a little hamlet on the other side of the wood. Milady would cross the garden and make her way to the hamlet on foot. As she had said, Milady knew this corner of France very well indeed.

  If the musketeers didn’t appear, things were to go as already planned: Madame Bonacieux would climb into the carriage as if to say goodbye, and Milady would carry her off.

  Before the lackey could leave, Madame Bonacieux came in, so in order to alleviate any suspicions she might have, Milady repeated in front of her the latter half of her instructions.

  She then asked about the carriage: it was a light chaise drawn by three horses, driven by a postilion, with Rochefort’s lackey riding ahead as a courier.

  Milady was wrong to fear suspicion on the part of Madame Bonacieux; the poor young woman was too innocent to suspect another woman of such treachery. Besides, the name of the Comtesse de Winter, as the abbess had called the lady, was completely unknown to her, and she had no idea that anyone like this woman might have such a great and fatal influence over her life.

  “You see, everything is ready,” Milady said, once the lackey was gone. “The abbess suspects nothing, and thinks I’m being taken away on behalf of the cardinal. That man has gone to make his final preparations; take a bite to eat, have a sip of wine, and let’s be off.”

  “Yes,” said Madame Bonacieux, mechanically. “Yes, let’s be off.”

  Milady offered her a chair, poured her a small glass of Spanish wine and carved her a slice of chicken. “You see? Everything’s going perfectly,” she said. “Night is coming on. By daybreak we’ll have arrived at our retreat and no one will have any idea where we are. Now take courage, and have a little something.”

  Madame Bonacieux chewed a few bites mechanically, and barely touched her lips to the glass.

  “Come now, join in with me,” Milady said, raising her own glass to her lips. But just as it reached her mouth, her hand hung suspended: she’d heard something on the road that sounded like the rumble of distant hooves drawing nearer, and she thought she could hear the whinny of horses.

  This sound shattered her joy in an instant, as when the sudden rush of a storm wakes one from a happy dream. She blanched and ran to the window, while Madame Bonacieux rose to her feet, trembling, and leaned on her chair to keep from toppling.

  Milady could see nothing as yet, only hear the galloping coming ever closer.

  “My God,” said Madame Bonacieux, “what is that noise?”

  “Either our friends . . . or our enemies,” said Milady, with her terrible sangfroid. “Stay right there and I’ll tell you what I see.”

  Madame Bonacieux remained standing, mute, immobile, and pale as a statue.

  The noise was now so loud the horses couldn’t be more than a hundred paces away; if they weren’t yet visible, it was because they were just around a ben
d in the road. The sound was so distinct one could almost count the horses by the drumming of their hooves.

  All at once, at the turn in the road, Milady saw the flicker of broad-brimmed hats and the flutter of plumes. She counted two, then five, then eight riders, one of them out in front by two lengths of a horse.

  Milady stifled a gasp—for she recognized the first rider as d’Artagnan.

  “Dear God!” cried Madame Bonacieux. “What do you see?”

  “The uniform of the Cardinal’s Guard,” Milady said. “We haven’t a moment to lose. Run!”

  “Yes, run,” Madame Bonacieux repeated, but she was frozen in place by terror, unable to take a step.

  They heard the riders pass beneath the window.

  “Come on. Come on!” cried Milady, trying to drag the young woman by the arm. “We can still escape through the garden—I have the key to the gate! But hurry! In five minutes it will be too late.”

  Madame Bonacieux tried to walk, took two steps, and collapsed to her knees.

  Milady tried to lift her to her feet, even carry her, but couldn’t manage it.

  At that moment they heard the wheels of the carriage, which at the sight of the musketeers had set off at a gallop. Three or four shots were fired.

  “For the last time, will you come?” cried Milady.

  “Oh, my God! I feel like I’m going to pass out—look, you can see I can’t take another step. Go on, run, escape while you still can!”

  “Go, and leave you here? No, no—never!” cried Milady.

  All at once, a light gleamed in her eyes. She darted to the table, deftly clicked open the collet of a large ring, and flicked the contents into Madame Bonacieux’s glass.

  It was a tiny drop of liquid, which dissolved immediately.

  Then, taking the glass in a firm hand, “Drink,” she said. “This wine will give you strength. Drink!”

  And she put the glass to the lips of the young woman, who drank obediently.

  This wasn’t how I’d planned to avenge myself, Milady thought, replacing the glass on the table with an infernal smile. But, my faith! One does what one can.

  And she darted from the room.

  Madame Bonacieux saw her go, but was unable to follow her. She was like one of those people who dream that someone is chasing them but can’t move a step.

  A minute passed, and then there was the sound of a commotion at the gate. Every moment Madame Bonacieux expected to see Milady return, but she never came. Her brow burned with fever, though it was bathed in cold sweat—from terror, she thought.

  Soon she heard the creak of the gate opening, and then the sound of boots and spurs echoing on the stairs. There was a murmur of approaching voices, from the midst of which she seemed to hear her own name.

  All at once she cried out with joy and threw herself toward the door: she had recognized the voice of d’Artagnan.

  “D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” she cried. “Is it you? Here, I’m here!”

  “Constance! Constance!” replied the young man. “Where are you? My God!”

  At that same moment the door of the cell burst open and several men rushed into the chamber. Madame Bonacieux fell onto a divan, unable to move.

  D’Artagnan threw a still-smoking pistol from his hand and fell to his knees before his mistress. Athos thrust his pistol into his belt, while Porthos and Aramis, who held naked swords, returned them to their scabbards.

  “Oh, d’Artagnan! My beloved d’Artagnan! You’ve come at last— it’s no dream, it’s really you!”

  “Yes, yes, Constance! We’re together!”

  “Oh! She said you would never come, but I still hoped you would. I didn’t want to flee, and I was right . . . how happy I am!”

  Athos had calmly seated himself, but at the word She, he rose with a start.

  “‘She’? What ‘she’?” asked d’Artagnan.

  “Why, my companion. The woman who, out of friendship for me, wanted to hide me from my persecutors. She took you for Cardinal’s Guards and has just run off.”

  “Your companion!” cried d’Artagnan, becoming paler than his mistress’s white veil. “What companion? Whom are you talking about?”

  “The woman whose carriage was at the gate—she says she’s your friend, d’Artagnan, and that you told her everything.”

  “Her name, her name!” cried d’Artagnan. “Dear God! Don’t you know her name?”

  “Yes, I heard it once . . . wait . . . it’s so strange . . . Oh, my God, I’m so dizzy, and I . . . I can’t see.”

  “My friends, help me! Her hands are like ice,” d’Artagnan cried. “She’s falling ill—great God! She’s passing out!”

  While Porthos called for help with all the power of his lungs, Aramis ran to the table to get a glass of water—but he stopped when he saw the horrified expression on Athos’s face. He stood before the table, hair rising on his head, his eyes glazed with horror, staring at one of the glasses with a terrible suspicion.

  “No!” said Athos. “No, it’s impossible! God wouldn’t permit such a crime.”

  “Some water!” cried d’Artagnan. “Water!”

  “Poor woman, poor woman!” murmured Athos, in a broken voice.

  Madame Bonacieux reopened her eyes under d’Artagnan’s kisses.

  “She’s reviving!” cried the young man. “Thank you, dear God!”

  “Madame,” said Athos, “Madame, in the name of heaven, whose empty glass is this?”

  “Mine, Monsieur,” replied the young woman, her voice fading.

  “But who poured this glass of wine for you?”

  “She.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Ah! I remember,” said Madame Bonacieux. “The Comtesse de Winter . . .”

  The four friends all uttered the same cry—but Athos’s was the loudest.

  At that moment, Madame Bonacieux’s face turned livid, she was gripped by a spasm of pain, and she fell panting into the arms of Porthos and Aramis.

  D’Artagnan seized Athos’s hands with indescribable anguish. “What is it? Tell me what you believe,” he said, voice choked with sobs.

  “I believe . . . everything,” said Athos, biting his lips till they bled.

  “D’Artagnan, d’Artagnan!” cried Madame Bonacieux. “Where are you? Don’t leave me—you can see I’m going to die.”

  D’Artagnan, who’d been clenching Athos’s hands between his own, dropped them and ran to her.

  Her face, once so beautiful, was contorted with pain, and her glassy eyes were blind. Her body shuddered convulsively and sweat ran from her brow.

  “In the name of heaven! Porthos, Aramis, run, call for help!”

  “Useless,” said Athos. “Useless. For the poison she pours, there is no antidote.”

  “Yes . . . help me, help me!” Madame Bonacieux said faintly. “Help me!”

  Then, gathering all her strength, she took the young man’s head between her hands, looked at him for an instant with her soul in her eyes, and with a sob, pressed her lips to his.

  “Constance! Constance!” cried d’Artagnan.

  A sigh escaped from Madame Bonacieux’s mouth and caressed d’Artagnan’s: this sigh was her soul, so chaste, so loving, returning to heaven on high.

  D’Artagnan held only a corpse in his arms.

  The young man cried out and fell beside his mistress, as pale and icy as she was.

  Porthos wept. Aramis shook his fist at heaven. Athos made the sign of the cross.

  At that moment a man, nearly as pale as those in the chamber, appeared in the doorway. He looked within, saw Madame Bonacieux dead and d’Artagnan in a faint.

  He appeared in that moment of stunned paralysis that follows great catastrophes.

  “So I wasn’t wrong,” he said. “It was Monsieur d’Artagnan, and you are his three friends, Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.”

  The latter three looked at the stranger with astonishment, though it seemed to all of them that they recognized him from somewhere.

/>   “Messieurs,” said the newcomer, “you are, like me, in search of a certain woman—and she must have passed this way,” he added, with a terrible smile, “for I see a corpse!”

  The three friends remained mute, for though the voice and the face were familiar, they couldn’t recall where they’d met before.

  “Messieurs,” continued the stranger, “since you don’t seem to recognize the man who probably owes his life to you twice over, allow me to name myself: I am Lord Winter, brother-in-law of that woman.”

  The three friends gasped in surprise.

  Athos rose and offered him his hand. “You are welcome, Milord,” he said. “You are one of us.”

  “I left Portsmouth five hours after her,” Lord Winter said. “I arrived at Boulogne three hours after she did. I missed her at Saint-Omer by only twenty minutes—then at Lillers, I lost the scent. I was casting about at random, asking everyone I met, when I saw you pass at a gallop, and I recognized Monsieur d’Artagnan. I called out to you, but you didn’t respond, and when I tried to follow, my horse was too exhausted to overtake you. But despite all your diligence, it appears you’ve arrived too late!”

  “As you see,” said Athos, indicating Madame Bonacieux, dead, and d’Artagnan, whom Porthos and Aramis were trying to revive.

  “Are they both dead, then?” asked Lord Winter coldly.

  “No, fortunately,” replied Athos. “Monsieur d’Artagnan has only fainted.”

  “Ah! That’s well,” said Lord Winter.

  At that moment d’Artagnan opened his eyes.

  He started up, tore himself from his friends’ arms, and threw himself like a madman at the body of his mistress.

  Athos approached his friend slowly and solemnly, took him in his arms, and as d’Artagnan burst into sobs, he said, in his noble and persuasive voice, “Friend, be a man. Women weep for the dead, but men avenge them!”

  “Yes,” said d’Artagnan, “yes, if it’s to avenge her, I’m ready to follow you!”

  Athos took advantage of this moment of strength, which the hope of revenge had given to his unhappy friend, to make a sign to Porthos and Aramis to go find the superior.