The three musketeers
instincts, any of these enmities which we see constantly breaking out
against the cardinal, bid me adieu and let us separate. I will aid you
in many ways, but without attaching you to my person. I hope that my
frankness at least will make you my friend; for you are the only young
man to whom I have hitherto spoken as I have done to you.”
Tréville said to himself: “If the cardinal has set this young fox upon
me, he will certainly not have failed—he, who knows how bitterly I
execrate him—to tell his spy that the best means of making his court to
me is to rail at him. Therefore, in spite of all my protestations, if
it be as I suspect, my cunning gossip will assure me that he holds his
Eminence in horror.”
It, however, proved otherwise. D’Artagnan answered, with the greatest
simplicity: “I came to Paris with exactly such intentions. My father
advised me to stoop to nobody but the king, the cardinal, and
yourself—whom he considered the first three personages in France.”
D’Artagnan added M. de Tréville to the others, as may be perceived; but
he thought this addition would do no harm.
“I have the greatest veneration for the cardinal,” continued he, “and
the most profound respect for his actions. So much the better for me,
sir, if you speak to me, as you say, with frankness—for then you will
do me the honor to esteem the resemblance of our opinions; but if you
have entertained any doubt, as naturally you may, I feel that I am
ruining myself by speaking the truth. But I still trust you will not
esteem me the less for it, and that is my object beyond all others.”
M. de Tréville was surprised to the greatest degree. So much
penetration, so much frankness, created admiration, but did not
entirely remove his suspicions. The more this young man was superior to
others, the more he was to be dreaded if he meant to deceive him.
Nevertheless, he pressed D’Artagnan’s hand, and said to him: “You are
an honest youth; but at the present moment I can only do for you that
which I just now offered. My hôtel will be always open to you.
Hereafter, being able to ask for me at all hours, and consequently to
take advantage of all opportunities, you will probably obtain that
which you desire.”
“That is to say,” replied D’Artagnan, “that you will wait until I have
proved myself worthy of it. Well, be assured,” added he, with the
familiarity of a Gascon, “you shall not wait long.” And he bowed in
order to retire, and as if he considered the future in his own hands.
“But wait a minute,” said M. de Tréville, stopping him. “I promised you
a letter for the director of the Academy. Are you too proud to accept
it, young gentleman?”
“No, sir,” said D’Artagnan; “and I will guard it so carefully that I
will be sworn it shall arrive at its address, and woe be to him who
shall attempt to take it from me!”
M. de Tréville smiled at this flourish; and leaving his young man
compatriot in the embrasure of the window, where they had talked
together, he seated himself at a table in order to write the promised
letter of recommendation. While he was doing this, D’Artagnan, having
no better employment, amused himself with beating a march upon the
window and with looking at the Musketeers, who went away, one after
another, following them with his eyes until they disappeared.
M. de Tréville, after having written the letter, sealed it, and rising,
approached the young man in order to give it to him. But at the very
moment when D’Artagnan stretched out his hand to receive it, M. de
Tréville was highly astonished to see his _protégé_ make a sudden
spring, become crimson with passion, and rush from the cabinet crying,
“S’blood, he shall not escape me this time!”
“And who?” asked M. de Tréville.
“He, my thief!” replied D’Artagnan. “Ah, the traitor!” and he
disappeared.
“The devil take the madman!” murmured M. de Tréville, “unless,” added
he, “this is a cunning mode of escaping, seeing that he had failed in
his purpose!”
Chapter IV.
THE SHOULDER OF ATHOS, THE BALDRIC OF PORTHOS AND THE HANDKERCHIEF OF
ARAMIS
D’Artagnan, in a state of fury, crossed the antechamber at three
bounds, and was darting toward the stairs, which he reckoned upon
descending four at a time, when, in his heedless course, he ran head
foremost against a Musketeer who was coming out of one of M. de
Tréville’s private rooms, and striking his shoulder violently, made him
utter a cry, or rather a howl.
“Excuse me,” said D’Artagnan, endeavoring to resume his course, “excuse
me, but I am in a hurry.”
Scarcely had he descended the first stair, when a hand of iron seized
him by the belt and stopped him.
“You are in a hurry?” said the Musketeer, as pale as a sheet. “Under
that pretense you run against me! You say, ‘Excuse me,’ and you believe
that is sufficient? Not at all, my young man. Do you fancy because you
have heard Monsieur de Tréville speak to us a little cavalierly today
that other people are to treat us as he speaks to us? Undeceive
yourself, comrade, you are not Monsieur de Tréville.”
“My faith!” replied D’Artagnan, recognizing Athos, who, after the
dressing performed by the doctor, was returning to his own apartment.
“I did not do it intentionally, and not doing it intentionally, I said
‘Excuse me.’ It appears to me that this is quite enough. I repeat to
you, however, and this time on my word of honor—I think perhaps too
often—that I am in haste, great haste. Leave your hold, then, I beg of
you, and let me go where my business calls me.”
“Monsieur,” said Athos, letting him go, “you are not polite; it is easy
to perceive that you come from a distance.”
D’Artagnan had already strode down three or four stairs, but at Athos’s
last remark he stopped short.
“_Morbleu_, monsieur!” said he, “however far I may come, it is not you
who can give me a lesson in good manners, I warn you.”
“Perhaps,” said Athos.
“Ah! If I were not in such haste, and if I were not running after
someone,” said D’Artagnan.
“Monsieur Man-in-a-hurry, you can find me without running—_me_, you
understand?”
“And where, I pray you?”
“Near the Carmes-Deschaux.”
“At what hour?”
“About noon.”
“About noon? That will do; I will be there.”
“Endeavor not to make me wait; for at quarter past twelve I will cut
off your ears as you run.”
“Good!” cried D’Artagnan, “I will be there ten minutes before twelve.”
And he set off running as if the devil possessed him, hoping that he
might yet find the stranger, whose slow pace could not have carried him
far.
But at the street gate, Porthos was talking with the soldier on guard.
Between the two talkers there was just enough room for a man to pass.
D’Artagnan thought it would suffice for him, and he sprang forward like
a dart between them. But D’Artagnan had reckoned without the wind. As
he was about to pass, the wind blew out Porthos’s long cloak, and
D’Artagnan rushed straight into the middle of it. Without doubt,
Porthos had reasons for not abandoning this part of his vestments, for
instead of quitting his hold on the flap in his hand, he pulled it
toward him, so that D’Artagnan rolled himself up in the velvet by a
movement of rotation explained by the persistency of Porthos.
D’Artagnan, hearing the Musketeer swear, wished to escape from the
cloak, which blinded him, and sought to find his way from under the
folds of it. He was particularly anxious to avoid marring the freshness
of the magnificent baldric we are acquainted with; but on timidly
opening his eyes, he found himself with his nose fixed between the two
shoulders of Porthos—that is to say, exactly upon the baldric.
Alas, like most things in this world which have nothing in their favor
but appearances, the baldric was glittering with gold in the front, but
was nothing but simple buff behind. Vainglorious as he was, Porthos
could not afford to have a baldric wholly of gold, but had at least
half. One could comprehend the necessity of the cold and the urgency of
the cloak.
“Bless me!” cried Porthos, making strong efforts to disembarrass
himself of D’Artagnan, who was wriggling about his back; “you must be
mad to run against people in this manner.”
“Excuse me,” said D’Artagnan, reappearing under the shoulder of the
giant, “but I am in such haste—I was running after someone and—”
“And do you always forget your eyes when you run?” asked Porthos.
“No,” replied D’Artagnan, piqued, “and thanks to my eyes, I can see
what other people cannot see.”
Whether Porthos understood him or did not understand him, giving way to
his anger, “Monsieur,” said he, “you stand a chance of getting
chastised if you rub Musketeers in this fashion.”
“Chastised, Monsieur!” said D’Artagnan, “the expression is strong.”
“It is one that becomes a man accustomed to look his enemies in the
face.”
“Ah, _pardieu!_ I know full well that you don’t turn your back to
yours.”
And the young man, delighted with his joke, went away laughing loudly.
Porthos foamed with rage, and made a movement to rush after D’Artagnan.
“Presently, presently,” cried the latter, “when you haven’t your cloak
on.”
“At one o’clock, then, behind the Luxembourg.”
“Very well, at one o’clock, then,” replied D’Artagnan, turning the
angle of the street.
But neither in the street he had passed through, nor in the one which
his eager glance pervaded, could he see anyone; however slowly the
stranger had walked, he was gone on his way, or perhaps had entered
some house. D’Artagnan inquired of everyone he met with, went down to
the ferry, came up again by the Rue de Seine, and the Red Cross; but
nothing, absolutely nothing! This chase was, however, advantageous to
him in one sense, for in proportion as the perspiration broke from his
forehead, his heart began to cool.
He began to reflect upon the events that had passed; they were numerous
and inauspicious. It was scarcely eleven o’clock in the morning, and
yet this morning had already brought him into disgrace with M. de
Tréville, who could not fail to think the manner in which D’Artagnan
had left him a little cavalier.
Besides this, he had drawn upon himself two good duels with two men,
each capable of killing three D’Artagnans—with two Musketeers, in
short, with two of those beings whom he esteemed so greatly that he
placed them in his mind and heart above all other men.
The outlook was sad. Sure of being killed by Athos, it may easily be
understood that the young man was not very uneasy about Porthos. As
hope, however, is the last thing extinguished in the heart of man, he
finished by hoping that he might survive, even though with terrible
wounds, in both these duels; and in case of surviving, he made the
following reprehensions upon his own conduct:
“What a madcap I was, and what a stupid fellow I am! That brave and
unfortunate Athos was wounded on that very shoulder against which I
must run head foremost, like a ram. The only thing that astonishes me
is that he did not strike me dead at once. He had good cause to do so;
the pain I gave him must have been atrocious. As to Porthos—oh, as to
Porthos, faith, that’s a droll affair!”
And in spite of himself, the young man began to laugh aloud, looking
round carefully, however, to see that his solitary laugh, without a
cause in the eyes of passers-by, offended no one.
“As to Porthos, that is certainly droll; but I am not the less a giddy
fool. Are people to be run against without warning? No! And have I any
right to go and peep under their cloaks to see what is not there? He
would have pardoned me, he would certainly have pardoned me, if I had
not said anything to him about that cursed baldric—in ambiguous words,
it is true, but rather drolly ambiguous. Ah, cursed Gascon that I am, I
get from one hobble into another. Friend D’Artagnan,” continued he,