The three musketeers
“To place yourself under his protection?”
“Oh, no, poor dear man! I knew very well that he was incapable of
defending me; but as he could serve us in other ways, I wished to
inform him.”
“Of what?”
“Oh, that is not my secret; I must not, therefore, tell you.”
“Besides,” said D’Artagnan, “pardon me, madame, if, guardsman as I am,
I remind you of prudence—besides, I believe we are not here in a very
proper place for imparting confidences. The men I have put to flight
will return reinforced; if they find us here, we are lost. I have sent
for three of my friends, but who knows whether they were at home?”
“Yes, yes! You are right,” cried the affrighted Mme. Bonacieux; “let us
fly! Let us save ourselves.”
At these words she passed her arm under that of D’Artagnan, and urged
him forward eagerly.
“But whither shall we fly—whither escape?”
“Let us first withdraw from this house; afterward we shall see.”
The young woman and the young man, without taking the trouble to shut
the door after them, descended the Rue des Fossoyeurs rapidly, turned
into the Rue des Fossés-Monsieur-le-Prince, and did not stop till they
came to the Place St. Sulpice.
“And now what are we to do, and where do you wish me to conduct you?”
asked D’Artagnan.
“I am at quite a loss how to answer you, I admit,” said Mme. Bonacieux.
“My intention was to inform Monsieur Laporte, through my husband, in
order that Monsieur Laporte might tell us precisely what had taken
place at the Louvre in the last three days, and whether there is any
danger in presenting myself there.”
“But I,” said D’Artagnan, “can go and inform Monsieur Laporte.”
“No doubt you could, only there is one misfortune, and that is that
Monsieur Bonacieux is known at the Louvre, and would be allowed to
pass; whereas you are not known there, and the gate would be closed
against you.”
“Ah, bah!” said D’Artagnan; “you have at some wicket of the Louvre a
_concierge_ who is devoted to you, and who, thanks to a password,
would—”
Mme. Bonacieux looked earnestly at the young man.
“And if I give you this password,” said she, “would you forget it as
soon as you used it?”
“By my honor, by the faith of a gentleman!” said D’Artagnan, with an
accent so truthful that no one could mistake it.
“Then I believe you. You appear to be a brave young man; besides, your
fortune may perhaps be the result of your devotedness.”
“I will do, without a promise and voluntarily, all that I can do to
serve the king and be agreeable to the queen. Dispose of me, then, as a
friend.”
“But I—where shall I go meanwhile?”
“Is there nobody from whose house Monsieur Laporte can come and fetch
you?”
“No, I can trust nobody.”
“Stop,” said D’Artagnan; “we are near Athos’s door. Yes, here it is.”
“Who is this Athos?”
“One of my friends.”
“But if he should be at home and see me?”
“He is not at home, and I will carry away the key, after having placed
you in his apartment.”
“But if he should return?”
“Oh, he won’t return; and if he should, he will be told that I have
brought a woman with me, and that woman is in his apartment.”
“But that will compromise me sadly, you know.”
“Of what consequence? Nobody knows you. Besides, we are in a situation
to overlook ceremony.”
“Come, then, let us go to your friend’s house. Where does he live?”
“Rue Férou, two steps from here.”
“Let us go!”
Both resumed their way. As D’Artagnan had foreseen, Athos was not
within. He took the key, which was customarily given him as one of the
family, ascended the stairs, and introduced Mme. Bonacieux into the
little apartment of which we have given a description.
“You are at home,” said he. “Remain here, fasten the door inside, and
open it to nobody unless you hear three taps like this;” and he tapped
thrice—two taps close together and pretty hard, the other after an
interval, and lighter.
“That is well,” said Mme. Bonacieux. “Now, in my turn, let me give you
my instructions.”
“I am all attention.”
“Present yourself at the wicket of the Louvre, on the side of the Rue
de l’Echelle, and ask for Germain.”
“Well, and then?”
“He will ask you what you want, and you will answer by these two words,
‘Tours’ and ‘Bruxelles.’ He will at once put himself at your orders.”
“And what shall I command him?”
“To go and fetch Monsieur Laporte, the queen’s _valet de chambre_.”
“And when he shall have informed him, and Monsieur Laporte is come?”
“You will send him to me.”
“That is well; but where and how shall I see you again?”
“Do you wish to see me again?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, let that care be mine, and be at ease.”
“I depend upon your word.”
“You may.”
D’Artagnan bowed to Mme. Bonacieux, darting at her the most loving
glance that he could possibly concentrate upon her charming little
person; and while he descended the stairs, he heard the door closed and
double-locked. In two bounds he was at the Louvre; as he entered the
wicket of L’Echelle, ten o’clock struck. All the events we have
described had taken place within a half hour.
Everything fell out as Mme. Bonacieux prophesied. On hearing the
password, Germain bowed. In a few minutes, Laporte was at the lodge; in
two words D’Artagnan informed him where Mme. Bonacieux was. Laporte
assured himself, by having it twice repeated, of the accurate address,
and set off at a run. Hardly, however, had he taken ten steps before he
returned.
“Young man,” said he to D’Artagnan, “a suggestion.”
“What?”
“You may get into trouble by what has taken place.”
“You believe so?”
“Yes. Have you any friend whose clock is too slow?”
“Well?”
“Go and call upon him, in order that he may give evidence of your
having been with him at half past nine. In a court of justice that is
called an alibi.”
D’Artagnan found his advice prudent. He took to his heels, and was soon
at M. de Tréville’s; but instead of going into the saloon with the rest
of the crowd, he asked to be introduced to M. de Tréville’s office. As
D’Artagnan so constantly frequented the hôtel, no difficulty was made
in complying with his request, and a servant went to inform M. de
Tréville that his young compatriot, having something important to
communicate, solicited a private audience. Five minutes after, M. de
Tréville was asking D’Artagnan what he could do to serve him, and what
caused his visit at so late an hour.
“Pardon me, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, who had profited by the moment
he had been left alone to put back M. de Tréville’s clock
three-quarters of an hour, “but I thought, as it was yet only
twenty-five minutes past nine, it was not too late to wait upon you.”
“Twenty-five minutes past nine!” cried M. de Tréville, looking at the
clock; “why, that’s impossible!”
“Look, rather, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “the clock shows it.”
“That’s true,” said M. de Tréville; “I believed it later. But what can
I do for you?”
Then D’Artagnan told M. de Tréville a long history about the queen. He
expressed to him the fears he entertained with respect to her Majesty;
he related to him what he had heard of the projects of the cardinal
with regard to Buckingham, and all with a tranquillity and candor of
which M. de Tréville was the more the dupe, from having himself, as we
have said, observed something fresh between the cardinal, the king, and
the queen.
As ten o’clock was striking, D’Artagnan left M. de Tréville, who
thanked him for his information, recommended him to have the service of
the king and queen always at heart, and returned to the saloon; but at
the foot of the stairs, D’Artagnan remembered he had forgotten his
cane. He consequently sprang up again, re-entered the office, with a
turn of his finger set the clock right again, that it might not be
perceived the next day that it had been put wrong, and certain from
that time that he had a witness to prove his alibi, he ran downstairs
and soon found himself in the street.
Chapter XI.
IN WHICH THE PLOT THICKENS
His visit to M. de Tréville being paid, the pensive D’Artagnan took the
longest way homeward.
On what was D’Artagnan thinking, that he strayed thus from his path,
gazing at the stars of heaven, and sometimes sighing, sometimes
smiling?
He was thinking of Mme. Bonacieux. For an apprentice Musketeer the
young woman was almost an ideal of love. Pretty, mysterious, initiated
in almost all the secrets of the court, which reflected such a charming
gravity over her pleasing features, it might be surmised that she was
not wholly unmoved; and this is an irresistible charm to novices in
love. Moreover, D’Artagnan had delivered her from the hands of the
demons who wished to search and ill treat her; and this important
service had established between them one of those sentiments of
gratitude which so easily assume a more tender character.
D’Artagnan already fancied himself, so rapid is the flight of our
dreams upon the wings of imagination, accosted by a messenger from the
young woman, who brought him some billet appointing a meeting, a gold
chain, or a diamond. We have observed that young cavaliers received
presents from their king without shame. Let us add that in these times
of lax morality they had no more delicacy with respect to the
mistresses; and that the latter almost always left them valuable and
durable remembrances, as if they essayed to conquer the fragility of
their sentiments by the solidity of their gifts.
Without a blush, men made their way in the world by the means of women
blushing. Such as were only beautiful gave their beauty, whence,
without doubt, comes the proverb, “The most beautiful girl in the world
can only give what she has.” Such as were rich gave in addition a part
of their money; and a vast number of heroes of that gallant period may
be cited who would neither have won their spurs in the first place, nor
their battles afterward, without the purse, more or less furnished,
which their mistress fastened to the saddle bow.
D’Artagnan owned nothing. Provincial diffidence, that slight varnish,
the ephemeral flower, that down of the peach, had evaporated to the
winds through the little orthodox counsels which the three Musketeers
gave their friend. D’Artagnan, following the strange custom of the
times, considered himself at Paris as on a campaign, neither more nor
less than if he had been in Flanders—Spain yonder, woman here. In each
there was an enemy to contend with, and contributions to be levied.
But, we must say, at the present moment D’Artagnan was ruled by a
feeling much more noble and disinterested. The mercer had said that he
was rich; the young man might easily guess that with so weak a man as
M. Bonacieux; and interest was almost foreign to this commencement of
love, which had been the consequence of it. We say _almost_, for the
idea that a young, handsome, kind, and witty woman is at the same time
rich takes nothing from the beginning of love, but on the contrary
strengthens it.
There are in affluence a crowd of aristocratic cares and caprices which
are highly becoming to beauty. A fine and white stocking, a silken
robe, a lace kerchief, a pretty slipper on the foot, a tasty ribbon on
the head do not make an ugly woman pretty, but they make a pretty woman
beautiful, without reckoning the hands, which gain by all this; the
hands, among women particularly, to be beautiful must be idle.
Then D’Artagnan, as the reader, from whom we have not concealed the
state of his fortune, very well knows—D’Artagnan was not a millionaire;
he hoped to become one someday, but the time which in his own mind he
fixed upon for this happy change was still far distant. In the
meanwhile, how disheartening to see the woman one loves long for those
thousands of nothings which constitute a woman’s happiness, and be