The three musketeers
At this instant the tapestry was raised and a noble and handsome head,
but frightfully pale, appeared under the fringe.
“Athos!” cried the two Musketeers.
“Athos!” repeated M. de Tréville himself.
“You have sent for me, sir,” said Athos to M. de Tréville, in a feeble
yet perfectly calm voice, “you have sent for me, as my comrades inform
me, and I have hastened to receive your orders. I am here; what do you
want with me?”
And at these words, the Musketeer, in irreproachable costume, belted as
usual, with a tolerably firm step, entered the cabinet. M. de Tréville,
moved to the bottom of his heart by this proof of courage, sprang
toward him.
“I was about to say to these gentlemen,” added he, “that I forbid my
Musketeers to expose their lives needlessly; for brave men are very
dear to the king, and the king knows that his Musketeers are the
bravest on the earth. Your hand, Athos!”
And without waiting for the answer of the newcomer to this proof of
affection, M. de Tréville seized his right hand and pressed it with all
his might, without perceiving that Athos, whatever might be his
self-command, allowed a slight murmur of pain to escape him, and if
possible, grew paler than he was before.
The door had remained open, so strong was the excitement produced by
the arrival of Athos, whose wound, though kept as a secret, was known
to all. A burst of satisfaction hailed the last words of the captain;
and two or three heads, carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment,
appeared through the openings of the tapestry. M. de Tréville was about
to reprehend this breach of the rules of etiquette, when he felt the
hand of Athos, who had rallied all his energies to contend against
pain, at length overcome by it, fell upon the floor as if he were dead.
“A surgeon!” cried M. de Tréville, “mine! The king’s! The best! A
surgeon! Or, s’blood, my brave Athos will die!”
At the cries of M. de Tréville, the whole assemblage rushed into the
cabinet, he not thinking to shut the door against anyone, and all
crowded round the wounded man. But all this eager attention might have
been useless if the doctor so loudly called for had not chanced to be
in the hôtel. He pushed through the crowd, approached Athos, still
insensible, and as all this noise and commotion inconvenienced him
greatly, he required, as the first and most urgent thing, that the
Musketeer should be carried into an adjoining chamber. Immediately M.
de Tréville opened and pointed the way to Porthos and Aramis, who bore
their comrade in their arms. Behind this group walked the surgeon; and
behind the surgeon the door closed.
The cabinet of M. de Tréville, generally held so sacred, became in an
instant the annex of the antechamber. Everyone spoke, harangued, and
vociferated, swearing, cursing, and consigning the cardinal and his
Guards to all the devils.
An instant after, Porthos and Aramis re-entered, the surgeon and M. de
Tréville alone remaining with the wounded.
At length, M. de Tréville himself returned. The injured man had
recovered his senses. The surgeon declared that the situation of the
Musketeer had nothing in it to render his friends uneasy, his weakness
having been purely and simply caused by loss of blood.
Then M. de Tréville made a sign with his hand, and all retired except
D’Artagnan, who did not forget that he had an audience, and with the
tenacity of a Gascon remained in his place.
When all had gone out and the door was closed, M. de Tréville, on
turning round, found himself alone with the young man. The event which
had occurred had in some degree broken the thread of his ideas. He
inquired what was the will of his persevering visitor. D’Artagnan then
repeated his name, and in an instant recovering all his remembrances of
the present and the past, M. de Tréville grasped the situation.
“Pardon me,” said he, smiling, “pardon me my dear compatriot, but I had
wholly forgotten you. But what help is there for it! A captain is
nothing but a father of a family, charged with even a greater
responsibility than the father of an ordinary family. Soldiers are big
children; but as I maintain that the orders of the king, and more
particularly the orders of the cardinal, should be executed—”
D’Artagnan could not restrain a smile. By this smile M. de Tréville
judged that he had not to deal with a fool, and changing the
conversation, came straight to the point.
“I respected your father very much,” said he. “What can I do for the
son? Tell me quickly; my time is not my own.”
“Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “on quitting Tarbes and coming hither, it
was my intention to request of you, in remembrance of the friendship
which you have not forgotten, the uniform of a Musketeer; but after all
that I have seen during the last two hours, I comprehend that such a
favor is enormous, and tremble lest I should not merit it.”
“It is indeed a favor, young man,” replied M. de Tréville, “but it may
not be so far beyond your hopes as you believe, or rather as you appear
to believe. But his majesty’s decision is always necessary; and I
inform you with regret that no one becomes a Musketeer without the
preliminary ordeal of several campaigns, certain brilliant actions, or
a service of two years in some other regiment less favored than ours.”
D’Artagnan bowed without replying, feeling his desire to don the
Musketeer’s uniform vastly increased by the great difficulties which
preceded the attainment of it.
“But,” continued M. de Tréville, fixing upon his compatriot a look so
piercing that it might be said he wished to read the thoughts of his
heart, “on account of my old companion, your father, as I have said, I
will do something for you, young man. Our recruits from Béarn are not
generally very rich, and I have no reason to think matters have much
changed in this respect since I left the province. I dare say you have
not brought too large a stock of money with you?”
D’Artagnan drew himself up with a proud air which plainly said, “I ask
alms of no man.”
“Oh, that’s very well, young man,” continued M. de Tréville, “that’s
all very well. I know these airs; I myself came to Paris with four
crowns in my purse, and would have fought with anyone who dared to tell
me I was not in a condition to purchase the Louvre.”
D’Artagnan’s bearing became still more imposing. Thanks to the sale of
his horse, he commenced his career with four more crowns than M. de
Tréville possessed at the commencement of his.
“You ought, I say, then, to husband the means you have, however large
the sum may be; but you ought also to endeavor to perfect yourself in
the exercises becoming a gentleman. I will write a letter today to the
Director of the Royal Academy, and tomorrow he will admit you without
any expense to yourself. Do not refuse this little service. Our
best-born and richest gentlemen sometimes solicit it without being able
to obtain it. You will learn horsemanship, swordsmanship in all its
branches, and dancing. You will make some desirable acquaintances; and
from time to time you can call upon me, just to tell me how you are
getting on, and to say whether I can be of further service to you.”
D’Artagnan, stranger as he was to all the manners of a court, could not
but perceive a little coldness in this reception.
“Alas, sir,” said he, “I cannot but perceive how sadly I miss the
letter of introduction which my father gave me to present to you.”
“I certainly am surprised,” replied M. de Tréville, “that you should
undertake so long a journey without that necessary passport, the sole
resource of us poor Béarnese.”
“I had one, sir, and, thank God, such as I could wish,” cried
D’Artagnan; “but it was perfidiously stolen from me.”
He then related the adventure of Meung, described the unknown gentleman
with the greatest minuteness, and all with a warmth and truthfulness
that delighted M. de Tréville.
“This is all very strange,” said M. de Tréville, after meditating a
minute; “you mentioned my name, then, aloud?”
“Yes, sir, I certainly committed that imprudence; but why should I have
done otherwise? A name like yours must be as a buckler to me on my way.
Judge if I should not put myself under its protection.”
Flattery was at that period very current, and M. de Tréville loved
incense as well as a king, or even a cardinal. He could not refrain
from a smile of visible satisfaction; but this smile soon disappeared,
and returning to the adventure of Meung, “Tell me,” continued he, “had
not this gentlemen a slight scar on his cheek?”
“Yes, such a one as would be made by the grazing of a ball.”
“Was he not a fine-looking man?”
“Yes.”
“Of lofty stature.”
“Yes.”
“Of pale complexion and brown hair?”
“Yes, yes, that is he; how is it, sir, that you are acquainted with
this man? If I ever find him again—and I will find him, I swear, were
it in hell!”
“He was waiting for a woman,” continued Tréville.
“He departed immediately after having conversed for a minute with her
whom he awaited.”
“You know not the subject of their conversation?”
“He gave her a box, told her not to open it except in London.”
“Was this woman English?”
“He called her Milady.”
“It is he; it must be he!” murmured Tréville. “I believed him still at
Brussels.”
“Oh, sir, if you know who this man is,” cried D’Artagnan, “tell me who
he is, and whence he is. I will then release you from all your
promises—even that of procuring my admission into the Musketeers; for
before everything, I wish to avenge myself.”
“Beware, young man!” cried Tréville. “If you see him coming on one side
of the street, pass by on the other. Do not cast yourself against such
a rock; he would break you like glass.”
“That will not prevent me,” replied D’Artagnan, “if ever I find him.”
“In the meantime,” said Tréville, “seek him not—if I have a right to
advise you.”
All at once the captain stopped, as if struck by a sudden suspicion.
This great hatred which the young traveler manifested so loudly for
this man, who—a rather improbable thing—had stolen his father’s letter
from him—was there not some perfidy concealed under this hatred? Might
not this young man be sent by his Eminence? Might he not have come for
the purpose of laying a snare for him? This pretended D’Artagnan—was he
not an emissary of the cardinal, whom the cardinal sought to introduce
into Tréville’s house, to place near him, to win his confidence, and
afterward to ruin him as had been done in a thousand other instances?
He fixed his eyes upon D’Artagnan even more earnestly than before. He
was moderately reassured, however, by the aspect of that countenance,
full of astute intelligence and affected humility. “I know he is a
Gascon,” reflected he, “but he may be one for the cardinal as well as
for me. Let us try him.”
“My friend,” said he, slowly, “I wish, as the son of an ancient
friend—for I consider this story of the lost letter perfectly true—I
wish, I say, in order to repair the coldness you may have remarked in
my reception of you, to discover to you the secrets of our policy. The
king and the cardinal are the best of friends; their apparent
bickerings are only feints to deceive fools. I am not willing that a
compatriot, a handsome cavalier, a brave youth, quite fit to make his
way, should become the dupe of all these artifices and fall into the
snare after the example of so many others who have been ruined by it.
Be assured that I am devoted to both these all-powerful masters, and
that my earnest endeavors have no other aim than the service of the
king, and also the cardinal—one of the most illustrious geniuses that
France has ever produced.
“Now, young man, regulate your conduct accordingly; and if you
entertain, whether from your family, your relations, or even from your