The three musketeers
“What the devil! There must be plenty left,” replied D’Artagnan. “Be
satisfied of that; these two cannot have drunk all the cellar.
Gentlemen, return your swords to their scabbards.”
“Well, provided you replace your pistols in your belt.”
“Willingly.”
And D’Artagnan set the example. Then, turning toward Planchet, he made
him a sign to uncock his musketoon.
The Englishmen, convinced of these peaceful proceedings, sheathed their
swords grumblingly. The history of Athos’s imprisonment was then
related to them; and as they were really gentlemen, they pronounced the
host in the wrong.
“Now, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “go up to your room again; and in
ten minutes, I will answer for it, you shall have all you desire.”
The Englishmen bowed and went upstairs.
“Now I am alone, my dear Athos,” said D’Artagnan; “open the door, I beg
of you.”
“Instantly,” said Athos.
Then was heard a great noise of fagots being removed and of the
groaning of posts; these were the counterscarps and bastions of Athos,
which the besieged himself demolished.
An instant after, the broken door was removed, and the pale face of
Athos appeared, who with a rapid glance took a survey of the
surroundings.
D’Artagnan threw himself on his neck and embraced him tenderly. He then
tried to draw him from his moist abode, but to his surprise he
perceived that Athos staggered.
“You are wounded,” said he.
“I! Not at all. I am dead drunk, that’s all, and never did a man more
strongly set about getting so. By the Lord, my good host! I must at
least have drunk for my part a hundred and fifty bottles.”
“Mercy!” cried the host, “if the lackey has drunk only half as much as
the master, I am a ruined man.”
“Grimaud is a well-bred lackey. He would never think of faring in the
same manner as his master; he only drank from the cask. Hark! I don’t
think he put the faucet in again. Do you hear it? It is running now.”
D’Artagnan burst into a laugh which changed the shiver of the host into
a burning fever.
In the meantime, Grimaud appeared in his turn behind his master, with
the musketoon on his shoulder, and his head shaking. Like one of those
drunken satyrs in the pictures of Rubens. He was moistened before and
behind with a greasy liquid which the host recognized as his best olive
oil.
The four crossed the public room and proceeded to take possession of
the best apartment in the house, which D’Artagnan occupied with
authority.
In the meantime the host and his wife hurried down with lamps into the
cellar, which had so long been interdicted to them and where a
frightful spectacle awaited them.
Beyond the fortifications through which Athos had made a breach in
order to get out, and which were composed of fagots, planks, and empty
casks, heaped up according to all the rules of the strategic art, they
found, swimming in puddles of oil and wine, the bones and fragments of
all the hams they had eaten; while a heap of broken bottles filled the
whole left-hand corner of the cellar, and a tun, the cock of which was
left running, was yielding, by this means, the last drop of its blood.
“The image of devastation and death,” as the ancient poet says,
“reigned as over a field of battle.”
Of fifty large sausages, suspended from the joists, scarcely ten
remained.
Then the lamentations of the host and hostess pierced the vault of the
cellar. D’Artagnan himself was moved by them. Athos did not even turn
his head.
To grief succeeded rage. The host armed himself with a spit, and rushed
into the chamber occupied by the two friends.
“Some wine!” said Athos, on perceiving the host.
“Some wine!” cried the stupefied host, “some wine? Why you have drunk
more than a hundred pistoles’ worth! I am a ruined man, lost,
destroyed!”
“Bah,” said Athos, “we were always dry.”
“If you had been contented with drinking, well and good; but you have
broken all the bottles.”
“You pushed me upon a heap which rolled down. That was your fault.”
“All my oil is lost!”
“Oil is a sovereign balm for wounds; and my poor Grimaud here was
obliged to dress those you had inflicted on him.”
“All my sausages are gnawed!”
“There is an enormous quantity of rats in that cellar.”
“You shall pay me for all this,” cried the exasperated host.
“Triple ass!” said Athos, rising; but he sank down again immediately.
He had tried his strength to the utmost. D’Artagnan came to his relief
with his whip in his hand.
The host drew back and burst into tears.
“This will teach you,” said D’Artagnan, “to treat the guests God sends
you in a more courteous fashion.”
“God? Say the devil!”
“My dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, “if you annoy us in this manner we
will all four go and shut ourselves up in your cellar, and we will see
if the mischief is as great as you say.”
“Oh, gentlemen,” said the host, “I have been wrong. I confess it, but
pardon to every sin! You are gentlemen, and I am a poor innkeeper. You
will have pity on me.”
“Ah, if you speak in that way,” said Athos, “you will break my heart,
and the tears will flow from my eyes as the wine flowed from the cask.
We are not such devils as we appear to be. Come hither, and let us
talk.”
The host approached with hesitation.
“Come hither, I say, and don’t be afraid,” continued Athos. “At the
very moment when I was about to pay you, I had placed my purse on the
table.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“That purse contained sixty pistoles; where is it?”
“Deposited with the justice; they said it was bad money.”
“Very well; get me my purse back and keep the sixty pistoles.”
“But Monseigneur knows very well that justice never lets go that which
it once lays hold of. If it were bad money, there might be some hopes;
but unfortunately, those were all good pieces.”
“Manage the matter as well as you can, my good man; it does not concern
me, the more so as I have not a livre left.”
“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “let us inquire further. Athos’s horse, where
is that?”
“In the stable.”
“How much is it worth?”
“Fifty pistoles at most.”
“It’s worth eighty. Take it, and there ends the matter.”
“What,” cried Athos, “are you selling my horse—my Bajazet? And pray
upon what shall I make my campaign; upon Grimaud?”
“I have brought you another,” said D’Artagnan.
“Another?”
“And a magnificent one!” cried the host.
“Well, since there is another finer and younger, why, you may take the
old one; and let us drink.”
“What?” asked the host, quite cheerful again.
“Some of that at the bottom, near the laths. There are twenty-five
bottles of it left; all the rest were broken by my fall. Bring six of
them.”
“Why, this man is a cask!” said the host, aside. “If he only remains
here a fortnight, and pays for what he drinks, I shall soon
re-establish my business.”
“And don’t forget,” said D’Artagnan, “to bring up four bottles of the
same sort for the two English gentlemen.”
“And now,” said Athos, “while they bring the wine, tell me, D’Artagnan,
what has become of the others, come!”
D’Artagnan related how he had found Porthos in bed with a strained
knee, and Aramis at a table between two theologians. As he finished,
the host entered with the wine ordered and a ham which, fortunately for
him, had been left out of the cellar.
“That’s well!” said Athos, filling his glass and that of his friend;
“here’s to Porthos and Aramis! But you, D’Artagnan, what is the matter
with you, and what has happened to you personally? You have a sad air.”
“Alas,” said D’Artagnan, “it is because I am the most unfortunate.”
“Tell me.”
“Presently,” said D’Artagnan.
“Presently! And why presently? Because you think I am drunk?
D’Artagnan, remember this! My ideas are never so clear as when I have
had plenty of wine. Speak, then, I am all ears.”
D’Artagnan related his adventure with Mme. Bonacieux. Athos listened to
him without a frown; and when he had finished, said, “Trifles, only
trifles!” That was his favorite word.
“You always say _trifles_, my dear Athos!” said D’Artagnan, “and that
comes very ill from you, who have never loved.”
The drink-deadened eye of Athos flashed out, but only for a moment; it
became as dull and vacant as before.
“That’s true,” said he, quietly, “for my part I have never loved.”
“Acknowledge, then, you stony heart,” said D’Artagnan, “that you are
wrong to be so hard upon us tender hearts.”
“Tender hearts! Pierced hearts!” said Athos.
“What do you say?”
“I say that love is a lottery in which he who wins, wins death! You are
very fortunate to have lost, believe me, my dear D’Artagnan. And if I
have any counsel to give, it is, always lose!”
“She seemed to love me so!”
“She _seemed_, did she?”
“Oh, she _did_ love me!”
“You child, why, there is not a man who has not believed, as you do,
that his mistress loved him, and there lives not a man who has not been
deceived by his mistress.”
“Except you, Athos, who never had one.”
“That’s true,” said Athos, after a moment’s silence, “that’s true! I
never had one! Let us drink!”
“But then, philosopher that you are,” said D’Artagnan, “instruct me,
support me. I stand in need of being taught and consoled.”
“Consoled for what?”
“For my misfortune.”
“Your misfortune is laughable,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; “I
should like to know what you would say if I were to relate to you a
real tale of love!”
“Which has happened to you?”
“Or one of my friends, what matters?”
“Tell it, Athos, tell it.”
“Better if I drink.”
“Drink and relate, then.”
“Not a bad idea!” said Athos, emptying and refilling his glass. “The
two things agree marvelously well.”
“I am all attention,” said D’Artagnan.
Athos collected himself, and in proportion as he did so, D’Artagnan saw
that he became pale. He was at that period of intoxication in which
vulgar drinkers fall on the floor and go to sleep. He kept himself
upright and dreamed, without sleeping. This somnambulism of drunkenness
had something frightful in it.
“You particularly wish it?” asked he.
“I pray for it,” said D’Artagnan.
“Be it then as you desire. One of my friends—one of my friends, please
to observe, not myself,” said Athos, interrupting himself with a
melancholy smile, “one of the counts of my province—that is to say, of
Berry—noble as a Dandolo or a Montmorency, at twenty-five years of age
fell in love with a girl of sixteen, beautiful as fancy can paint.
Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind, not of the
woman, but of the poet. She did not please; she intoxicated. She lived
in a small town with her brother, who was a curate. Both had recently
come into the country. They came nobody knew whence; but when seeing
her so lovely and her brother so pious, nobody thought of asking whence
they came. They were said, however, to be of good extraction. My
friend, who was seigneur of the country, might have seduced her, or
taken her by force, at his will—for he was master. Who would have come
to the assistance of two strangers, two unknown persons? Unfortunately
he was an honorable man; he married her. The fool! The ass! The idiot!”
“How so, if he loved her?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Wait,” said Athos. “He took her to his château, and made her the first
lady in the province; and in justice it must be allowed that she
supported her rank becomingly.”
“Well?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Well, one day when she was hunting with her husband,” continued Athos,
in a low voice, and speaking very quickly, “she fell from her horse and
fainted. The count flew to her to help, and as she appeared to be
oppressed by her clothes, he ripped them open with his poniard, and in
so doing laid bare her shoulder. D’Artagnan,” said Athos, with a
maniacal burst of laughter, “guess what she had on her shoulder.”
“How can I tell?” said D’Artagnan.