Three Musketeers (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Will you eat any of these beans, Cousin Porthos?” said Mme. Coquenard, in that tone which says, “Take my advice, don’t touch them.”

  “Devil take me if I taste one of them!” murmured Porthos to himself, and then said aloud, “Thank you, my cousin, I am no longer hungry.”

  There was silence. Porthos could hardly keep his countenance. The procurator repeated several times, “Ah, Madame Coquenard! accept my compliments; your dinner has been a real feast. Lord, how I have eaten!”

  M. Coquenard had eaten his soup, the black feet of the fowl, and the only mutton bone on which there was the least appearance of meat.

  Porthos fancied they were mystifying him, and began to curl his mustache and knit his eyebrows; but the knee of Mme. Coquenard gently advised him to be patient.

  This silence and this interruption in serving, which were unintelligible to Porthos, had, on the contrary, a terrible meaning for the clerks. Upon a look from the procurator, accompanied by a smile from Mme. Coquenard, they arose slowly from the table, folded their napkins more slowly still, bowed, and retired.

  “Go, young men! go and promote digestion by working,” said the procurator, gravely.

  The clerks gone, Mme. Coquenard rose and took from a buffet a piece of cheese, some preserved quinces, and a cake which she had herself made of almonds and honey.

  M. Coquenard knit his eyebrows because there were too many good things. Porthos bit his lips because he saw not the wherewithal to dine. He looked to see if the dish of beans was still there; the dish of beans had disappeared.

  “A positive feast!” cried M. Coquenard, turning about in his chair, “a real feast, epulœ epulorum. Lucullus dines with Lucullus.” al

  Porthos looked at the bottle, which was near him, and hoped that with wine, bread, and cheese, he might make a dinner; but wine was wanting, the bottle was empty. M. and Mme. Coquenard did not seem to observe it.

  “This is fine!” said Porthos to himself; “I am prettily caught!”

  He passed his tongue over a spoonful of preserves, and stuck his teeth into the sticky pastry of Mme. Coquenard.

  “Now,” said he, “the sacrifice is consummated! Ah! if I had not the hope of peeping with Madame Coquenard into her husband’s chest!”

  M. Coquenard, after the luxuries of such a repast, which he called an excess, felt the want of a siesta. Porthos began to hope that the thing would take place at the present sitting, and in that same locality; but the procurator would listen to nothing, he would be taken to his room, and was not satisfied till he was close to his chest, upon the edge of which, for still greater precaution, he placed his feet.

  The procurator’s wife took Porthos into an adjoining room, and they began to lay the basis of a reconciliation.

  “You can come and dine three times a week,” said Mme. Coquenard.

  “Thanks, madame!” said Porthos, “but I don’t like to abuse your kindness; besides, I must think of my outfit!”

  “That’s true,” said the procurator’s wife, groaning, “that unfortunate outfit!”

  “Alas, yes,” said Porthos, “it is so.”

  “But of what, then, does the equipment of your company consist, Monsieur Porthos?”

  “Oh, of many things!” said Porthos. “The Musketeers are, as you know, picked soldiers, and they require many things useless to the Guardsmen or the Swiss.”

  “But yet, detail them to me.”

  “Why, they may amount to—” said Porthos, who preferred discussing the total to taking them one by one.

  The procurator’s wife waited tremblingly.

  “To how much?” said she. “I hope it does not exceed—” She stopped; speech failed her.

  “Oh, no,” said Porthos, “it does not exceed two thousand five hundred livers! I even think that with economy I could manage it with two thousand livres.”

  “Good God!” cried she, “two thousand livres! Why, that is a fortune!”

  Porthos made a most significant grimace; Mme. Coquenard understood it.

  “I wished to know the detail,” said she, “because, having many relatives in business, I was almost sure of obtaining things at a hundred per cent less than you would pay yourself.”

  “Ah, ah!” said Porthos, “that is what you meant to say!”

  “Yes, dear Monsieur Porthos. Thus, for instance, don’t you in the first place want a horse?”

  “Yes, a horse.”

  “Well, then! I can just suit you.”

  “Ah!” said Porthos, brightening, “that’s well as regards my horse; but I must have the appointments complete, as they include objects which a Musketeer alone can purchase, and which will not amount, besides, to more than three hundred livres.”

  “Three hundred livres? Then put down three hundred livres,” said the procurator’s wife, with a sigh.

  Porthos smiled. It may be remembered that he had the saddle which came from Buckingham. These three hundred livres he reckoned upon putting snugly into his pocket.

  “Then,” continued he, “there is a horse for my lackey, and my valise. As to my arms, it is useless to trouble you about them; I have them.”

  “A horse for your lackey?” resumed the procurator’s wife, hesitatingly; “but that is doing things in lordly style, my friend.”

  “Ah, madame!” said Porthos, haughtily; “do you take me for a beggar?”

  “No; I only thought that a pretty mule makes sometimes as good an appearance as a horse, and it seemed to me that by getting a pretty mule for Mousqueton—”

  “Well, agreed for a pretty mule,” said Porthos; “you are right, I have seen very great Spanish nobles whose whole suite were mounted on mules. But then you understand, Madame Coquenard, a mule with feathers and bells.”

  “Be satisfied,” said the procurator’s wife.

  “There remains the valise,” added Porthos.

  “Oh, don’t let that disturb you,” cried Mme. Coquenard. “My husband has five or six valises; you shall choose the best. There is one in particular which he prefers in his journeys, large enough to hold all the world.”

  “Your valise is then empty?” asked Porthos, with simplicity.

  “Certainly it is empty,” replied the procurator’s wife, in real innocence.

  “Ah, but the valise I want,” cried Porthos, “is a well-filled one, my dear.”

  Madame uttered fresh sighs. Molière had not written his scene in “L’Avare” then. Mme. Coquenard was in the dilemma of Harpagan. am

  Finally, the rest of the equipment was successively debated in the same manner; and the result of the sitting was that the procurator’s wife should give eight hundred livres in money, and should furnish the horse and the mule which should have the honor of carrying Porthos and Mousqueton to glory.

  These conditions being agreed to, Porthos took leave of Mme. Coquenard. The latter wished to detain him by darting certain tender glances; but Porthos urged the commands of duty, and the procurator’s wife was obliged to give place to the king.

  The Musketeer returned home hungry and in bad humor.

  33

  SOUBRETTE AND MISTRESS

  Meantime, as we have said, despite the cries of his conscience and the wise counsels of Athos, D’Artagnan became hourly more in love with Milady. Thus he never failed to pay his diurnal court to her; and the self-satisfied Gascon was convinced that sooner or later she could not fail to respond.

  One day, when he arrived with his head in the air, and as light at heart as a man who awaits a shower of gold, he found the soubrette under the gateway of the hotel; but this time the pretty Kitty was not contented with touching him as he passed, she took him gently by the hand.

  “Good!” thought D’Artagnan, “she is charged with some message for me from her mistress; she is about to appoint some rendezvous of which she had not courage to speak.” And he looked down at the pretty girl with the most triumphant air imaginable.

  “I wish to say three words to you, Monsieur Chevalier,” stammered the soubrett
e.

  “Speak, my child, speak,” said D’Artagnan; “I listen.”

  “Here? Impossible! That which I have to say is too long, and above all, too secret.”

  “Well, what is to be done?”

  “If Monsieur Chevalier would follow me?” said Kitty, timidly.

  “Where you please, my dear child.”

  “Come, then.”

  And Kitty, who had not let go the hand of D’Artagnan, led him up a little dark, winding staircase, and after ascending about fifteen steps, opened a door.

  “Come in here, Monsieur Chevalier,” said she; “here we shall be alone, and can talk.”

  “And whose room is this, my dear child?”

  “It is mine, Monsieur Chevalier; it communicates with my mistress’s by that door. But you need not fear. She will not hear what we say; she never goes to bed before midnight.”

  D’Artagnan cast a glance around him. The little apartment was charming for its taste and neatness; but in spite of himself, his eyes were directed to that door which Kitty said led to Milady’s chamber.

  Kitty guessed what was passing in the mind of the young man, and heaved a deep sigh.

  “You love my mistress, then, very dearly, Monsieur Chevalier?” said she.

  “Oh, more than I can say, Kitty! I am mad for her!”

  Kitty breathed a second sigh.

  “Alas, monsieur,” said she, “that is too bad.”

  “What the devil do you see so bad in it?” said D’Artagnan.

  “Because, monsieur,” replied Kitty, “my mistress loves you not at all.”

  “Hein!” said D’Artagnan, “can she have charged you to tell me so?”

  “Oh, no, monsieur; but out of the regard I have for you, I have taken the resolution to tell you so.”

  “Much obliged, my dear Kitty; but for the intention only—for the information, you must agree, is not likely to be at all agreeable.”

  “That is to say, you don’t believe what I have told you; is it not so?”

  “We have always some difficulty in believing such things, my pretty dear, were it only from self-love.”

  “Then you don’t believe me?”

  “I confess that unless you deign to give me some proof of what you advance—”

  “What do you think of this?”

  Kitty drew a little note from her bosom.

  “For me?” said D’Artagnan, seizing the letter.

  “No; for another.”

  “For another?”

  “Yes.”

  “His name; his name!” cried D’Artagnan.

  “Read the address.”

  “Monsieur le Comte de Wardes.”

  The remembrance of the scene at St. Germain presented itself to the mind of the presumptuous Gascon. As quick as thought, he tore open the letter, in spite of the cry which Kitty uttered on seeing what he was going to do, or rather, what he was doing.

  “Oh, good Lord, Monsieur Chevalier,” said she, “what are you doing?”

  “I?” said D’Artagnan; “nothing,” and he read,

  You have not answered my first note. Are you indisposed, or have you forgotten the glances you favored me with at the ball of Mme. de Guise? You have an opportunity now, Count; do not allow it to escape.

  D’Artagnan became very pale; he was wounded in his self-love: he thought that it was in his love.

  “Poor dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Kitty, in a voice full of compassion, and pressing anew the young man’s hand.

  “You pity me, little one?” said D’Artagnan.

  “Oh, yes, and with all my heart; for I know what it is to be in love.”

  “You know what it is to be in love?” said D’Artagnan, looking at her for the first time with much attention.

  “Alas, yes.”

  “Well, then, instead of pitying me, you would do much better to assist me in avenging myself on your mistress.”

  “And what sort of revenge would you take?”

  “I would triumph over her, and supplant my rival.”

  “I will never help you in that, Monsieur Chevalier,” said Kitty, warmly.

  “And why not?” demanded D’Artagnan.

  “For two reasons.”

  “What ones?”

  “The first is that my mistress will never love you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You have cut her to the heart.”

  “I? In what can I have offended her—I who ever since I have known her have lived at her feet like a slave? Speak, I beg you! ”

  “I will never confess that but to the man—who should read to the bottom of my soul!”

  D’Artagnan looked at Kitty for the second time. The young girl had freshness and beauty which many duchesses would have purchased with their coronets.

  “Kitty,” said he, “I will read to the bottom of your soul whenever you like; don’t let that disturb you.” And he gave her a kiss at which the poor girl became as red as a cherry.

  “Oh, no,” said Kitty, “it is not me you love! It is my mistress you love; you told me so just now.”

  “And does that hinder you from letting me know the second reason?”

  “The second reason, Monsieur the Chevalier,” replied Kitty, emboldened by the kiss in the first place, and still further by the expression of the eyes of the young man, “is that in love, everyone for herself!”

  Then only D’Artagnan remembered the languishing glances of Kitty, her constantly meeting him in the antechamber, the corridor, or on the stairs, those touches of the hand every time she met him, and her deep sighs; but absorbed by his desire to please the great lady, he had disdained the soubrette. He whose game is the eagle takes no heed of the sparrow.

  But this time our Gascon saw at a glance all the advantage to be derived from the love which Kitty had just confessed so innocently, or so boldly: the interception of letters addressed to the Comte de Wardes, news on the spot, entrance at all hours into Kitty’s chamber, which was contiguous to her mistress’s. The perfidious deceiver was, as may plainly be perceived, already sacrificing, in intention, the poor girl in order to obtain Milady, willy-nilly.

  “Well,” said he to the young girl, “are you willing, my dear Kitty, that I should give you a proof of that love which you doubt?”

  “What love?” asked the young girl.

  “Of that which I am ready to feel toward you.”

  “And what is that proof?”

  “Are you willing that I should this evening pass with you the time I generally spend with your mistress?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Kitty, clapping her hands, “very willing.”

  “Well, then, come here, my dear,” said D’Artagnan, establishing himself in an easy chair: “come, and let me tell you that you are the prettiest soubrette I ever saw!”

  And he did tell her so much, and so well, that the poor girl, who asked nothing better than to believe him, did believe him. Nevertheless, to D’Artagnan’s great astonishment, the pretty Kitty defended herself resolutely.

  Time passes quickly when it is passed in attacks and defenses. Midnight sounded, and almost at the same time the bell was rung in Milady’s chamber.

  “Good God,” cried Kitty, “there is my mistress calling me! Go; go directly!”

  D’Artagnan rose, took his hat, as if it had been his intention to obey, then, opening quickly the door of a large closet instead of that leading to the staircase, he buried himself amid the robes and dressing gowns of Milady.

  “What are you doing?” cried Kitty.

  D’Artagnan, who had secured the key, shut himself up in the closet without reply.

  “Well,” cried Milady, in a sharp voice. “Are you asleep, that you don’t answer when I ring?”

  And D’Artagnan heard the door of communication opened violently.

  “Here am I, Milady, here am I!” cried Kitty, springing forward to meet her mistress.

  Both went into the bedroom, and as the door of communication remained open, D’Artagnan c
ould hear Milady for some time scolding her maid. She was at length appeased, and the conversation turned upon him while Kitty was assisting her mistress.

  “Well,” said Milady, “I have not seen our Gascon this evening.”

  “What, Milady! has he not come?” said Kitty. “Can he be inconstant before being happy?”

  “Oh, no; he must have been prevented by Monsieur de Tréville or Monsieur Dessessart. I understand my game, Kitty; I have this one safe.”

  “What will you do with him, madame?”

  “What will I do with him? Be easy, Kitty, there is something between that man and me that he is quite ignorant of: he nearly made me lose my credit with his Eminence. Oh, I will be revenged!”

  “I believed that Madame loved him.”

  “I love him? I detest him! An idiot, who held the life of Lord de Winter in his hands and did not kill him, by which I missed three hundred thousand livres’ income.”

  “That’s true,” said Kitty; “your son was the only heir of his uncle, and until his majority you would have had the enjoyment of his fortune.”

  D’Artagnan shuddered to the marrow at hearing this suave creature reproach him, with that sharp voice which she took such pains to conceal in conversation, for not having killed a man whom he had seen load her with kindness.

  “For all this,” continued Milady, “I should long ago have revenged myself on him if, and I don’t know why, the cardinal had not requested me to conciliate him.”

  “Oh, yes; but Madame has not conciliated that little woman he was so fond of.”

  “What, the mercer’s wife of the Rue des Fossoyeurs? Has he not already forgotten she ever existed? Fine vengeance that, on my faith!”

  A cold sweat broke from D’Artagnan’s brow. Why, this woman was a monster! He resumed his listening, but unfortunately the toilet was finished.

  “That will do,” said Milady; “go into your own room, and tomorrow endeavor again to get me an answer to the letter I gave you.”

  “For Monsieur de Wardes?” said Kitty.

  “To be sure; for Monsieur de Wardes.”

  “Now, there is one,” said Kitty, “who appears to be quite a different sort of a man from that poor Monsieur d’Artagnan.”