The three musketeers
“Without the saddle?” said Aramis.
“Yes, without the saddle.”
“You will observe, gentlemen,” said Athos, “that Porthos has made the
best bargain of any of us.”
And then commenced a roar of laughter in which they all joined, to the
astonishment of poor Porthos; but when he was informed of the cause of
their hilarity, he shared it vociferously according to his custom.
“There is one comfort, we are all in cash,” said D’Artagnan.
“Well, for my part,” said Athos, “I found Aramis’s Spanish wine so good
that I sent on a hamper of sixty bottles of it in the wagon with the
lackeys. That has weakened my purse.”
“And I,” said Aramis, “imagined that I had given almost my last sou to
the church of Montdidier and the Jesuits of Amiens, with whom I had
made engagements which I ought to have kept. I have ordered Masses for
myself, and for you, gentlemen, which will be said, gentlemen, for
which I have not the least doubt you will be marvelously benefited.”
“And I,” said Porthos, “do you think my strain cost me nothing?—without
reckoning Mousqueton’s wound, for which I had to have the surgeon twice
a day, and who charged me double on account of that foolish Mousqueton
having allowed himself a ball in a part which people generally only
show to an apothecary; so I advised him to try never to get wounded
there any more.”
“Ay, ay!” said Athos, exchanging a smile with D’Artagnan and Aramis,
“it is very clear you acted nobly with regard to the poor lad; that is
like a good master.”
“In short,” said Porthos, “when all my expenses are paid, I shall have,
at most, thirty crowns left.”
“And I about ten pistoles,” said Aramis.
“Well, then it appears that we are the Crœsuses of the society. How
much have you left of your hundred pistoles, D’Artagnan?”
“Of my hundred pistoles? Why, in the first place I gave you fifty.”
“You think so?”
“_Pardieu!_”
“Ah, that is true. I recollect.”
“Then I paid the host six.”
“What a brute of a host! Why did you give him six pistoles?”
“You told me to give them to him.”
“It is true; I am too good-natured. In brief, how much remains?”
“Twenty-five pistoles,” said D’Artagnan.
“And I,” said Athos, taking some small change from his pocket, “I—”
“You? Nothing!”
“My faith! So little that it is not worth reckoning with the general
stock.”
“Now, then, let us calculate how much we posses in all.”
“Porthos?”
“Thirty crowns.”
“Aramis?”
“Ten pistoles.”
“And you, D’Artagnan?”
“Twenty-five.”
“That makes in all?” said Athos.
“Four hundred and seventy-five livres,” said D’Artagnan, who reckoned
like Archimedes.
“On our arrival in Paris, we shall still have four hundred, besides the
harnesses,” said Porthos.
“But our troop horses?” said Aramis.
“Well, of the four horses of our lackeys we will make two for the
masters, for which we will draw lots. With the four hundred livres we
will make the half of one for one of the unmounted, and then we will
give the turnings out of our pockets to D’Artagnan, who has a steady
hand, and will go and play in the first gaming house we come to.
There!”
“Let us dine, then,” said Porthos; “it is getting cold.”
The friends, at ease with regard to the future, did honor to the
repast, the remains of which were abandoned to Mousqueton, Bazin,
Planchet, and Grimaud.
On arriving in Paris, D’Artagnan found a letter from M. de Tréville,
which informed him that, at his request, the king had promised that he
should enter the company of the Musketeers.
As this was the height of D’Artagnan’s worldly ambition—apart, be it
well understood, from his desire of finding Mme. Bonacieux—he ran, full
of joy, to seek his comrades, whom he had left only half an hour
before, but whom he found very sad and deeply preoccupied. They were
assembled in council at the residence of Athos, which always indicated
an event of some gravity. M. de Tréville had intimated to them his
Majesty’s fixed intention to open the campaign on the first of May, and
they must immediately prepare their outfits.
The four philosophers looked at one another in a state of bewilderment.
M. de Tréville never jested in matters relating to discipline.
“And what do you reckon your outfit will cost?” said D’Artagnan.
“Oh, we can scarcely say. We have made our calculations with Spartan
economy, and we each require fifteen hundred livres.”
“Four times fifteen makes sixty—six thousand livres,” said Athos.
“It seems to me,” said D’Artagnan, “with a thousand livres each—I do
not speak as a Spartan, but as a procurator—”
This word _procurator_ roused Porthos. “Stop,” said he, “I have an
idea.”
“Well, that’s something, for I have not the shadow of one,” said Athos
coolly; “but as to D’Artagnan, gentlemen, the idea of belonging to
_ours_ has driven him out of his senses. A thousand livres! For my
part, I declare I want two thousand.”
“Four times two makes eight,” then said Aramis; “it is eight thousand
that we want to complete our outfits, toward which, it is true, we have
already the saddles.”
“Besides,” said Athos, waiting till D’Artagnan, who went to thank
Monsieur de Tréville, had shut the door, “besides, there is that
beautiful ring which beams from the finger of our friend. What the
devil! D’Artagnan is too good a comrade to leave his brothers in
embarrassment while he wears the ransom of a king on his finger.”
Chapter XXIX.
HUNTING FOR THE EQUIPMENTS
The most preoccupied of the four friends was certainly D’Artagnan,
although he, in his quality of Guardsman, would be much more easily
equipped than Messieurs the Musketeers, who were all of high rank; but
our Gascon cadet was, as may have been observed, of a provident and
almost avaricious character, and with that (explain the contradiction)
so vain as almost to rival Porthos. To this preoccupation of his
vanity, D’Artagnan at this moment joined an uneasiness much less
selfish. Notwithstanding all his inquiries respecting Mme. Bonacieux,
he could obtain no intelligence of her. M. de Tréville had spoken of
her to the queen. The queen was ignorant where the mercer’s young wife
was, but had promised to have her sought for; but this promise was very
vague and did not at all reassure D’Artagnan.
Athos did not leave his chamber; he made up his mind not to take a
single step to equip himself.
“We have still fifteen days before us,” said he to his friends, “well,
if at the end of a fortnight I have found nothing, or rather if nothing
has come to find me, as I, too good a Catholic to kill myself with a
pistol bullet, I will seek a good quarrel with four of his Eminence’s
Guards or with eight Englishmen, and I will fight until one of them has
killed me, which, considering the number, cannot fail to happen. It
will then be said of me that I died for the king; so that I shall have
performed my duty without the expense of an outfit.”
Porthos continued to walk about with his hands behind him, tossing his
head and repeating, “I shall follow up on my idea.”
Aramis, anxious and negligently dressed, said nothing.
It may be seen by these disastrous details that desolation reigned in
the community.
The lackeys on their part, like the coursers of Hippolytus, shared the
sadness of their masters. Mousqueton collected a store of crusts;
Bazin, who had always been inclined to devotion, never quit the
churches; Planchet watched the flight of flies; and Grimaud, whom the
general distress could not induce to break the silence imposed by his
master, heaved sighs enough to soften the stones.
The three friends—for, as we have said, Athos had sworn not to stir a
foot to equip himself—went out early in the morning, and returned late
at night. They wandered about the streets, looking at the pavement as
if to see whether the passengers had not left a purse behind them. They
might have been supposed to be following tracks, so observant were they
wherever they went. When they met they looked desolately at one
another, as much as to say, “Have you found anything?”
However, as Porthos had first found an idea, and had thought of it
earnestly afterward, he was the first to act. He was a man of
execution, this worthy Porthos. D’Artagnan perceived him one day
walking toward the church of St. Leu, and followed him instinctively.
He entered, after having twisted his mustache and elongated his
imperial, which always announced on his part the most triumphant
resolutions. As D’Artagnan took some precautions to conceal himself,
Porthos believed he had not been seen. D’Artagnan entered behind him.
Porthos went and leaned against the side of a pillar. D’Artagnan, still
unperceived, supported himself against the other side.
There happened to be a sermon, which made the church very full of
people. Porthos took advantage of this circumstance to ogle the women.
Thanks to the cares of Mousqueton, the exterior was far from announcing
the distress of the interior. His hat was a little napless, his feather
was a little faded, his gold lace was a little tarnished, his laces
were a trifle frayed; but in the obscurity of the church these things
were not seen, and Porthos was still the handsome Porthos.
D’Artagnan observed, on the bench nearest to the pillar against which
Porthos leaned, a sort of ripe beauty, rather yellow and rather dry,
but erect and haughty under her black hood. The eyes of Porthos were
furtively cast upon this lady, and then roved about at large over the
nave.
On her side the lady, who from time to time blushed, darted with the
rapidity of lightning a glance toward the inconstant Porthos; and then
immediately the eyes of Porthos wandered anxiously. It was plain that
this mode of proceeding piqued the lady in the black hood, for she bit
her lips till they bled, scratched the end of her nose, and could not
sit still in her seat.
Porthos, seeing this, retwisted his mustache, elongated his imperial a
second time, and began to make signals to a beautiful lady who was near
the choir, and who not only was a beautiful lady, but still further, no
doubt, a great lady—for she had behind her a Negro boy who had brought
the cushion on which she knelt, and a female servant who held the
emblazoned bag in which was placed the book from which she read the
Mass.
The lady with the black hood followed through all their wanderings the
looks of Porthos, and perceived that they rested upon the lady with the
velvet cushion, the little Negro, and the maid-servant.
During this time Porthos played close. It was almost imperceptible
motions of his eyes, fingers placed upon the lips, little assassinating
smiles, which really did assassinate the disdained beauty.
Then she cried, “Ahem!” under cover of the _mea culpa_, striking her
breast so vigorously that everybody, even the lady with the red
cushion, turned round toward her. Porthos paid no attention.
Nevertheless, he understood it all, but was deaf.
The lady with the red cushion produced a great effect—for she was very
handsome—upon the lady with the black hood, who saw in her a rival
really to be dreaded; a great effect upon Porthos, who thought her much
prettier than the lady with the black hood; a great effect upon
D’Artagnan, who recognized in her the lady of Meung, of Calais, and of
Dover, whom his persecutor, the man with the scar, had saluted by the
name of Milady.
D’Artagnan, without losing sight of the lady of the red cushion,
continued to watch the proceedings of Porthos, which amused him
greatly. He guessed that the lady of the black hood was the
procurator’s wife of the Rue aux Ours, which was the more probable from
the church of St. Leu being not far from that locality.
He guessed, likewise, by induction, that Porthos was taking his revenge
for the defeat of Chantilly, when the procurator’s wife had proved so