The three musketeers
Rochefort! Stop, my friend, I have an idea.”
“Speak, monsieur.”
“In your place, I would do one thing.”
“What?”
“While his Eminence was seeking for me in Paris, I would take, without
sound of drum or trumpet, the road to Picardy, and would go and make
some inquiries concerning my three companions. What the devil! They
merit richly that piece of attention on your part.”
“The advice is good, monsieur, and tomorrow I will set out.”
“Tomorrow! Any why not this evening?”
“This evening, monsieur, I am detained in Paris by indispensable
business.”
“Ah, young man, young man, some flirtation or other. Take care, I
repeat to you, take care. It is woman who has ruined us, still ruins
us, and will ruin us, as long as the world stands. Take my advice and
set out this evening.”
“Impossible, monsieur.”
“You have given your word, then?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Ah, that’s quite another thing; but promise me, if you should not be
killed tonight, that you will go tomorrow.”
“I promise it.”
“Do you need money?”
“I have still fifty pistoles. That, I think, is as much as I shall
want.”
“But your companions?”
“I don’t think they can be in need of any. We left Paris, each with
seventy-five pistoles in his pocket.”
“Shall I see you again before your departure?”
“I think not, monsieur, unless something new should happen.”
“Well, a pleasant journey.”
“Thanks, monsieur.”
D’Artagnan left M. de Tréville, touched more than ever by his paternal
solicitude for his Musketeers.
He called successively at the abodes of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.
Neither of them had returned. Their lackeys likewise were absent, and
nothing had been heard of either the one or the other. He would have
inquired after them of their mistresses, but he was neither acquainted
with Porthos’s nor Aramis’s, and as to Athos, he had none.
As he passed the Hôtel des Gardes, he took a glance into the stables.
Three of the four horses had already arrived. Planchet, all
astonishment, was busy grooming them, and had already finished two.
“Ah, monsieur,” said Planchet, on perceiving D’Artagnan, “how glad I am
to see you.”
“Why so, Planchet?” asked the young man.
“Do you place confidence in our landlord—Monsieur Bonacieux?”
“I? Not the least in the world.”
“Oh, you do quite right, monsieur.”
“But why this question?”
“Because, while you were talking with him, I watched you without
listening to you; and, monsieur, his countenance changed color two or
three times!”
“Bah!”
“Preoccupied as Monsieur was with the letter he had received, he did
not observe that; but I, whom the strange fashion in which that letter
came into the house had placed on my guard—I did not lose a movement of
his features.”
“And you found it?”
“Traitorous, monsieur.”
“Indeed!”
“Still more; as soon as Monsieur had left and disappeared round the
corner of the street, Monsieur Bonacieux took his hat, shut his door,
and set off at a quick pace in an opposite direction.”
“It seems you are right, Planchet; all this appears to be a little
mysterious; and be assured that we will not pay him our rent until the
matter shall be categorically explained to us.”
“Monsieur jests, but Monsieur will see.”
“What would you have, Planchet? What must come is written.”
“Monsieur does not then renounce his excursion for this evening?”
“Quite the contrary, Planchet; the more ill will I have toward Monsieur
Bonacieux, the more punctual I shall be in keeping the appointment made
by that letter which makes you so uneasy.”
“Then that is Monsieur’s determination?”
“Undeniably, my friend. At nine o’clock, then, be ready here at the
hôtel, I will come and take you.”
Planchet seeing there was no longer any hope of making his master
renounce his project, heaved a profound sigh and set to work to groom
the third horse.
As to D’Artagnan, being at bottom a prudent youth, instead of returning
home, went and dined with the Gascon priest, who, at the time of the
distress of the four friends, had given them a breakfast of chocolate.
Chapter XXIV.
THE PAVILION
At nine o’clock D’Artagnan was at the Hôtel des Gardes; he found
Planchet all ready. The fourth horse had arrived.
Planchet was armed with his musketoon and a pistol. D’Artagnan had his
sword and placed two pistols in his belt; then both mounted and
departed quietly. It was quite dark, and no one saw them go out.
Planchet took place behind his master, and kept at a distance of ten
paces from him.
D’Artagnan crossed the quays, went out by the gate of La Conférence and
followed the road, much more beautiful then than it is now, which leads
to St. Cloud.
As long as he was in the city, Planchet kept at the respectful distance
he had imposed upon himself; but as soon as the road began to be more
lonely and dark, he drew softly nearer, so that when they entered the
Bois de Boulogne he found himself riding quite naturally side by side
with his master. In fact, we must not dissemble that the oscillation of
the tall trees and the reflection of the moon in the dark underwood
gave him serious uneasiness. D’Artagnan could not help perceiving that
something more than usual was passing in the mind of his lackey and
said, “Well, Monsieur Planchet, what is the matter with us now?”
“Don’t you think, monsieur, that woods are like churches?”
“How so, Planchet?”
“Because we dare not speak aloud in one or the other.”
“But why did you not dare to speak aloud, Planchet—because you are
afraid?”
“Afraid of being heard? Yes, monsieur.”
“Afraid of being heard! Why, there is nothing improper in our
conversation, my dear Planchet, and no one could find fault with it.”
“Ah, monsieur!” replied Planchet, recurring to his besetting idea,
“that Monsieur Bonacieux has something vicious in his eyebrows, and
something very unpleasant in the play of his lips.”
“What the devil makes you think of Bonacieux?”
“Monsieur, we think of what we can, and not of what we will.”
“Because you are a coward, Planchet.”
“Monsieur, we must not confound prudence with cowardice; prudence is a
virtue.”
“And you are very virtuous, are you not, Planchet?”
“Monsieur, is not that the barrel of a musket which glitters yonder?
Had we not better lower our heads?”
“In truth,” murmured D’Artagnan, to whom M. de Tréville’s
recommendation recurred, “this animal will end by making me afraid.”
And he put his horse into a trot.
Planchet followed the movements of his master as if he had been his
shadow, and was soon trotting by his side.
“Are we going to continue this pace all night?” asked Planchet.
“No; you are at your journey’s end.”
“How, monsieur! And you?”
“I am going a few steps farther.”
“And Monsieur leaves me here alone?”
“You are afraid, Planchet?”
“No; I only beg leave to observe to Monsieur that the night will be
very cold, that chills bring on rheumatism, and that a lackey who has
the rheumatism makes but a poor servant, particularly to a master as
active as Monsieur.”
“Well, if you are cold, Planchet, you can go into one of those cabarets
that you see yonder, and be in waiting for me at the door by six
o’clock in the morning.”
“Monsieur, I have eaten and drunk respectfully the crown you gave me
this morning, so that I have not a sou left in case I should be cold.”
“Here’s half a pistole. Tomorrow morning.”
D’Artagnan sprang from his horse, threw the bridle to Planchet, and
departed at a quick pace, folding his cloak around him.
“Good Lord, how cold I am!” cried Planchet, as soon as he had lost
sight of his master; and in such haste was he to warm himself that he
went straight to a house set out with all the attributes of a suburban
tavern, and knocked at the door.
In the meantime D’Artagnan, who had plunged into a bypath, continued
his route and reached St. Cloud; but instead of following the main
street he turned behind the château, reached a sort of retired lane,
and found himself soon in front of the pavilion named. It was situated
in a very private spot. A high wall, at the angle of which was the
pavilion, ran along one side of this lane, and on the other was a
little garden connected with a poor cottage which was protected by a
hedge from passers-by.
He gained the place appointed, and as no signal had been given him by
which to announce his presence, he waited.
Not the least noise was to be heard; it might be imagined that he was a
hundred miles from the capital. D’Artagnan leaned against the hedge,
after having cast a glance behind it. Beyond that hedge, that garden,
and that cottage, a dark mist enveloped with its folds that immensity
where Paris slept—a vast void from which glittered a few luminous
points, the funeral stars of that hell!
But for D’Artagnan all aspects were clothed happily, all ideas wore a
smile, all shades were diaphanous. The appointed hour was about to
strike. In fact, at the end of a few minutes the belfry of St. Cloud
let fall slowly ten strokes from its sonorous jaws. There was something
melancholy in this brazen voice pouring out its lamentations in the
middle of the night; but each of those strokes, which made up the
expected hour, vibrated harmoniously to the heart of the young man.
His eyes were fixed upon the little pavilion situated at the angle of
the wall, of which all the windows were closed with shutters, except
one on the first story. Through this window shone a mild light which
silvered the foliage of two or three linden trees which formed a group
outside the park. There could be no doubt that behind this little
window, which threw forth such friendly beams, the pretty Mme.
Bonacieux expected him.
Wrapped in this sweet idea, D’Artagnan waited half an hour without the
least impatience, his eyes fixed upon that charming little abode of
which he could perceive a part of the ceiling with its gilded moldings,
attesting the elegance of the rest of the apartment.
The belfry of St. Cloud sounded half past ten.
This time, without knowing why, D’Artagnan felt a cold shiver run
through his veins. Perhaps the cold began to affect him, and he took a
perfectly physical sensation for a moral impression.
Then the idea seized him that he had read incorrectly, and that the
appointment was for eleven o’clock. He drew near to the window, and
placing himself so that a ray of light should fall upon the letter as
he held it, he drew it from his pocket and read it again; but he had
not been mistaken, the appointment was for ten o’clock. He went and
resumed his post, beginning to be rather uneasy at this silence and
this solitude.
Eleven o’clock sounded.
D’Artagnan began now really to fear that something had happened to Mme.
Bonacieux. He clapped his hands three times—the ordinary signal of
lovers; but nobody replied to him, not even an echo.
He then thought, with a touch of vexation, that perhaps the young woman
had fallen asleep while waiting for him. He approached the wall, and
tried to climb it; but the wall had been recently pointed, and
D’Artagnan could get no hold.
At that moment he thought of the trees, upon whose leaves the light
still shone; and as one of them drooped over the road, he thought that
from its branches he might get a glimpse of the interior of the
pavilion.
The tree was easy to climb. Besides, D’Artagnan was but twenty years
old, and consequently had not yet forgotten his schoolboy habits. In an
instant he was among the branches, and his keen eyes plunged through
the transparent panes into the interior of the pavilion.
It was a strange thing, and one which made D’Artagnan tremble from the
sole of his foot to the roots of his hair, to find that this soft
light, this calm lamp, enlightened a scene of fearful disorder. One of