The three musketeers
D’Artagnan, and which D’Artagnan from that time made shift to do
without.
Athos, on his part, had a valet whom he had trained in his service in a
thoroughly peculiar fashion, and who was named Grimaud. He was very
taciturn, this worthy signor. Be it understood we are speaking of
Athos. During the five or six years that he had lived in the strictest
intimacy with his companions, Porthos and Aramis, they could remember
having often seen him smile, but had never heard him laugh. His words
were brief and expressive, conveying all that was meant, and no more;
no embellishments, no embroidery, no arabesques. His conversation was a
matter of fact, without a single romance.
Although Athos was scarcely thirty years old, and was of great personal
beauty and intelligence of mind, no one knew whether he had ever had a
mistress. He never spoke of women. He certainly did not prevent others
from speaking of them before him, although it was easy to perceive that
this kind of conversation, in which he only mingled by bitter words and
misanthropic remarks, was very disagreeable to him. His reserve, his
roughness, and his silence made almost an old man of him. He had, then,
in order not to disturb his habits, accustomed Grimaud to obey him upon
a simple gesture or upon a simple movement of his lips. He never spoke
to him, except under the most extraordinary occasions.
Sometimes, Grimaud, who feared his master as he did fire, while
entertaining a strong attachment to his person and a great veneration
for his talents, believed he perfectly understood what he wanted, flew
to execute the order received, and did precisely the contrary. Athos
then shrugged his shoulders, and, without putting himself in a passion,
thrashed Grimaud. On these days he spoke a little.
Porthos, as we have seen, had a character exactly opposite to that of
Athos. He not only talked much, but he talked loudly, little caring, we
must render him that justice, whether anybody listened to him or not.
He talked for the pleasure of talking and for the pleasure of hearing
himself talk. He spoke upon all subjects except the sciences, alleging
in this respect the inveterate hatred he had borne to scholars from his
childhood. He had not so noble an air as Athos, and the commencement of
their intimacy often rendered him unjust toward that gentleman, whom he
endeavored to eclipse by his splendid dress. But with his simple
Musketeer’s uniform and nothing but the manner in which he threw back
his head and advanced his foot, Athos instantly took the place which
was his due and consigned the ostentatious Porthos to the second rank.
Porthos consoled himself by filling the antechamber of M. de Tréville
and the guardroom of the Louvre with the accounts of his love scrapes,
after having passed from professional ladies to military ladies, from
the lawyer’s dame to the baroness, there was question of nothing less
with Porthos than a foreign princess, who was enormously fond of him.
An old proverb says, “Like master, like man.” Let us pass, then, from
the valet of Athos to the valet of Porthos, from Grimaud to Mousqueton.
Mousqueton was a Norman, whose pacific name of Boniface his master had
changed into the infinitely more sonorous name of Mousqueton. He had
entered the service of Porthos upon condition that he should only be
clothed and lodged, though in a handsome manner; but he claimed two
hours a day to himself, consecrated to an employment which would
provide for his other wants. Porthos agreed to the bargain; the thing
suited him wonderfully well. He had doublets cut out of his old clothes
and cast-off cloaks for Mousqueton, and thanks to a very intelligent
tailor, who made his clothes look as good as new by turning them, and
whose wife was suspected of wishing to make Porthos descend from his
aristocratic habits, Mousqueton made a very good figure when attending
on his master.
As for Aramis, of whom we believe we have sufficiently explained the
character—a character which, like that of his companions, we shall be
able to follow in its development—his lackey was called Bazin. Thanks
to the hopes which his master entertained of someday entering into
orders, he was always clothed in black, as became the servant of a
churchman. He was a Berrichon, thirty-five or forty years old, mild,
peaceable, sleek, employing the leisure his master left him in the
perusal of pious works, providing rigorously for two a dinner of few
dishes, but excellent. For the rest, he was dumb, blind, and deaf, and
of unimpeachable fidelity.
And now that we are acquainted, superficially at least, with the
masters and the valets, let us pass on to the dwellings occupied by
each of them.
Athos dwelt in the Rue Férou, within two steps of the Luxembourg. His
apartment consisted of two small chambers, very nicely fitted up, in a
furnished house, the hostess of which, still young and still really
handsome, cast tender glances uselessly at him. Some fragments of past
splendor appeared here and there upon the walls of this modest lodging;
a sword, for example, richly embossed, which belonged by its make to
the times of Francis I, the hilt of which alone, encrusted with
precious stones, might be worth two hundred pistoles, and which,
nevertheless, in his moments of greatest distress Athos had never
pledged or offered for sale. It had long been an object of ambition for
Porthos. Porthos would have given ten years of his life to possess this
sword.
One day, when he had an appointment with a duchess, he endeavored even
to borrow it of Athos. Athos, without saying anything, emptied his
pockets, got together all his jewels, purses, aiguillettes, and gold
chains, and offered them all to Porthos; but as to the sword, he said
it was sealed to its place and should never quit it until its master
should himself quit his lodgings. In addition to the sword, there was a
portrait representing a nobleman of the time of Henry III., dressed with
the greatest elegance, and who wore the Order of the Holy Ghost; and
this portrait had certain resemblances of lines with Athos, certain
family likenesses which indicated that this great noble, a knight of
the Order of the King, was his ancestor.
Besides these, a casket of magnificent goldwork, with the same arms as
the sword and the portrait, formed a middle ornament to the
mantelpiece, and assorted badly with the rest of the furniture. Athos
always carried the key of this coffer about him; but he one day opened
it before Porthos, and Porthos was convinced that this coffer contained
nothing but letters and papers—love letters and family papers, no
doubt.
Porthos lived in an apartment, large in size and of very sumptuous
appearance, in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier. Every time he passed with a
friend before his windows, at one of which Mousqueton was sure to be
placed in full livery, Porthos raised his head and his hand, and said,
“That is my abode!” But he was never to be found at home; he never
invited anybody to go up with him, and no one could form an idea of
what his sumptuous apartment contained in the shape of real riches.
As to Aramis, he dwelt in a little lodging composed of a boudoir, an
eating room, and a bedroom, which room, situated, as the others were,
on the ground floor, looked out upon a little fresh green garden, shady
and impenetrable to the eyes of his neighbors.
With regard to D’Artagnan, we know how he was lodged, and we have
already made acquaintance with his lackey, Master Planchet.
D’Artagnan, who was by nature very curious—as people generally are who
possess the genius of intrigue—did all he could to make out who Athos,
Porthos, and Aramis really were (for under these pseudonyms each of
these young men concealed his family name)—Athos in particular, who, a
league away, savored of nobility. He addressed himself then to Porthos
to gain information respecting Athos and Aramis, and to Aramis in order
to learn something of Porthos.
Unfortunately Porthos knew nothing of the life of his silent companion
but what revealed itself. It was said Athos had met with great crosses
in love, and that a frightful treachery had forever poisoned the life
of this gallant man. What could this treachery be? All the world was
ignorant of it.
As to Porthos, except his real name (as was the case with those of his
two comrades), his life was very easily known. Vain and indiscreet, it
was as easy to see through him as through a crystal. The only thing to
mislead the investigator would have been belief in all the good things
he said of himself.
With respect to Aramis, though having the air of having nothing secret
about him, he was a young fellow made up of mysteries, answering little
to questions put to him about others, and having learned from him the
report which prevailed concerning the success of the Musketeer with a
princess, wished to gain a little insight into the amorous adventures
of his interlocutor. “And you, my dear companion,” said he, “you speak
of the baronesses, countesses, and princesses of others?”
“_Pardieu!_ I spoke of them because Porthos talked of them himself,
because he had paraded all these fine things before me. But be assured,
my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, that if I had obtained them from any other
source, or if they had been confided to me, there exists no confessor
more discreet than myself.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” replied D’Artagnan; “but it seems to me that
you are tolerably familiar with coats of arms—a certain embroidered
handkerchief, for instance, to which I owe the honor of your
acquaintance?”
This time Aramis was not angry, but assumed the most modest air and
replied in a friendly tone, “My dear friend, do not forget that I wish
to belong to the Church, and that I avoid all mundane opportunities.
The handkerchief you saw had not been given to me, but it had been
forgotten and left at my house by one of my friends. I was obliged to
pick it up in order not to compromise him and the lady he loves. As for
myself, I neither have, nor desire to have, a mistress, following in
that respect the very judicious example of Athos, who has none any more
than I have.”
“But what the devil! You are not a priest, you are a Musketeer!”
“A Musketeer for a time, my friend, as the cardinal says, a Musketeer
against my will, but a churchman at heart, believe me. Athos and
Porthos dragged me into this to occupy me. I had, at the moment of
being ordained, a little difficulty with—But that would not interest
you, and I am taking up your valuable time.”
“Not at all; it interests me very much,” cried D’Artagnan; “and at this
moment I have absolutely nothing to do.”
“Yes, but I have my breviary to repeat,” answered Aramis; “then some
verses to compose, which Madame d’Aiguillon begged of me. Then I must
go to the Rue St. Honoré in order to purchase some rouge for Madame de
Chevreuse. So you see, my dear friend, that if you are not in a hurry,
I am very much in a hurry.”
Aramis held out his hand in a cordial manner to his young companion,
and took leave of him.
Notwithstanding all the pains he took, D’Artagnan was unable to learn
any more concerning his three new-made friends. He formed, therefore,
the resolution of believing for the present all that was said of their
past, hoping for more certain and extended revelations in the future.
In the meanwhile, he looked upon Athos as an Achilles, Porthos as an
Ajax, and Aramis as a Joseph.
As to the rest, the life of the four young friends was joyous enough.
Athos played, and that as a rule unfortunately. Nevertheless, he never
borrowed a sou of his companions, although his purse was ever at their
service; and when he had played upon honor, he always awakened his
creditor by six o’clock the next morning to pay the debt of the
preceding evening.