The three musketeers
only say this out of affection for me, but at bottom they all like
you.”
“Ah, monsieur,” said Planchet, “I will succeed or I will consent to be
cut in quarters; and if they do cut me in quarters, be assured that not
a morsel of me will speak.”
It was decided that Planchet should set out the next day, at eight
o’clock in the morning, in order, as he had said, that he might during
the night learn the letter by heart. He gained just twelve hours by
this engagement; he was to be back on the sixteenth day, by eight
o’clock in the evening.
In the morning, as he was mounting his horse, D’Artagnan, who felt at
the bottom of his heart a partiality for the duke, took Planchet aside.
“Listen,” said he to him. “When you have given the letter to Lord de
Winter and he has read it, you will further say to him: _Watch over his
Grace Lord Buckingham, for they wish to assassinate him_. But this,
Planchet, is so serious and important that I have not informed my
friends that I would entrust this secret to you; and for a captain’s
commission I would not write it.”
“Be satisfied, monsieur,” said Planchet, “you shall see if confidence
can be placed in me.”
Mounted on an excellent horse, which he was to leave at the end of
twenty leagues in order to take the post, Planchet set off at a gallop,
his spirits a little depressed by the triple promise made him by the
Musketeers, but otherwise as light-hearted as possible.
Bazin set out the next day for Tours, and was allowed eight days for
performing his commission.
The four friends, during the period of these two absences, had, as may
well be supposed, the eye on the watch, the nose to the wind, and the
ear on the hark. Their days were passed in endeavoring to catch all
that was said, in observing the proceeding of the cardinal, and in
looking out for all the couriers who arrived. More than once an
involuntary trembling seized them when called upon for some unexpected
service. They had, besides, to look constantly to their own proper
safety; Milady was a phantom which, when it had once appeared to
people, did not allow them to sleep very quietly.
On the morning of the eighth day, Bazin, fresh as ever, and smiling,
according to custom, entered the cabaret of the Parpaillot as the four
friends were sitting down to breakfast, saying, as had been agreed
upon: “Monsieur Aramis, the answer from your cousin.”
The four friends exchanged a joyful glance; half of the work was done.
It is true, however, that it was the shorter and easier part.
Aramis, blushing in spite of himself, took the letter, which was in a
large, coarse hand and not particular for its orthography.
“Good God!” cried he, laughing, “I quite despair of my poor Michon; she
will never write like Monsieur de Voiture.”
“What does you mean by boor Michon?” said the Swiss, who was chatting
with the four friends when the letter came.
“Oh, _pardieu_, less than nothing,” said Aramis; “a charming little
seamstress, whom I love dearly and from whose hand I requested a few
lines as a sort of keepsake.”
“The duvil!” said the Swiss, “if she is as great a lady as her writing
is large, you are a lucky fellow, gomrade!”
Aramis read the letter, and passed it to Athos.
“See what she writes to me, Athos,” said he.
Athos cast a glance over the epistle, and to disperse all the
suspicions that might have been created, read aloud:
“MY COUSIN, My sister and I are skillful in interpreting dreams, and
even entertain great fear of them; but of yours it may be said, I hope,
every dream is an illusion. Adieu! Take care of yourself, and act so
that we may from time to time hear you spoken of.
“MARIE MICHON”
“And what dream does she mean?” asked the dragoon, who had approached
during the reading.
“Yez; what’s the dream?” said the Swiss.
“Well, _pardieu!_” said Aramis, “it was only this: I had a dream, and I
related it to her.”
“Yez, yez,” said the Swiss; “it’s simple enough to dell a dream, but I
neffer dream.”
“You are very fortunate,” said Athos, rising; “I wish I could say as
much!”
“Neffer,” replied the Swiss, enchanted that a man like Athos could envy
him anything. “Neffer, neffer!”
D’Artagnan, seeing Athos rise, did likewise, took his arm, and went
out.
Porthos and Aramis remained behind to encounter the jokes of the
dragoon and the Swiss.
As to Bazin, he went and lay down on a truss of straw; and as he had
more imagination than the Swiss, he dreamed that Aramis, having become
pope, adorned his head with a cardinal’s hat.
But, as we have said, Bazin had not, by his fortunate return, removed
more than a part of the uneasiness which weighed upon the four friends.
The days of expectation are long, and D’Artagnan, in particular, would
have wagered that the days were forty-four hours. He forgot the
necessary slowness of navigation; he exaggerated to himself the power
of Milady. He credited this woman, who appeared to him the equal of a
demon, with agents as supernatural as herself; at the least noise, he
imagined himself about to be arrested, and that Planchet was being
brought back to be confronted with himself and his friends. Still
further, his confidence in the worthy Picard, at one time so great,
diminished day by day. This anxiety became so great that it even
extended to Aramis and Porthos. Athos alone remained unmoved, as if no
danger hovered over him, and as if he breathed his customary
atmosphere.
On the sixteenth day, in particular, these signs were so strong in
D’Artagnan and his two friends that they could not remain quiet in one
place, and wandered about like ghosts on the road by which Planchet was
expected.
“Really,” said Athos to them, “you are not men but children, to let a
woman terrify you so! And what does it amount to, after all? To be
imprisoned. Well, but we should be taken out of prison; Madame
Bonacieux was released. To be decapitated? Why, every day in the
trenches we go cheerfully to expose ourselves to worse than that—for a
bullet may break a leg, and I am convinced a surgeon would give us more
pain in cutting off a thigh than an executioner in cutting off a head.
Wait quietly, then; in two hours, in four, in six hours at latest,
Planchet will be here. He promised to be here, and I have very great
faith in Planchet, who appears to me to be a very good lad.”
“But if he does not come?” said D’Artagnan.
“Well, if he does not come, it will be because he has been delayed,
that’s all. He may have fallen from his horse, he may have cut a caper
from the deck; he may have traveled so fast against the wind as to have
brought on a violent catarrh. Eh, gentlemen, let us reckon upon
accidents! Life is a chaplet of little miseries which the philosopher
counts with a smile. Be philosophers, as I am, gentlemen; sit down at
the table and let us drink. Nothing makes the future look so bright as
surveying it through a glass of chambertin.”
“That’s all very well,” replied D’Artagnan; “but I am tired of fearing
when I open a fresh bottle that the wine may come from the cellar of
Milady.”
“You are very fastidious,” said Athos; “such a beautiful woman!”
“A woman of mark!” said Porthos, with his loud laugh.
Athos started, passed his hand over his brow to remove the drops of
perspiration that burst forth, and rose in his turn with a nervous
movement he could not repress.
The day, however, passed away; and the evening came on slowly, but
finally it came. The bars were filled with drinkers. Athos, who had
pocketed his share of the diamond, seldom quit the Parpaillot. He had
found in M. de Busigny, who, by the by, had given them a magnificent
dinner, a partner worthy of his company. They were playing together, as
usual, when seven o’clock sounded; the patrol was heard passing to
double the posts. At half past seven the retreat was sounded.
“We are lost,” said D’Artagnan, in the ear of Athos.
“You mean to say we _have lost_,” said Athos, quietly, drawing four
pistoles from his pocket and throwing them upon the table. “Come,
gentlemen,” said he, “they are beating the tattoo. Let us to bed!”
And Athos went out of the Parpaillot, followed by D’Artagnan. Aramis
came behind, giving his arm to Porthos. Aramis mumbled verses to
himself, and Porthos from time to time pulled a hair or two from his
mustache, in sign of despair.
But all at once a shadow appeared in the darkness the outline of which
was familiar to D’Artagnan, and a well-known voice said, “Monsieur, I
have brought your cloak; it is chilly this evening.”
“Planchet!” cried D’Artagnan, beside himself with joy.
“Planchet!” repeated Aramis and Porthos.
“Well, yes, Planchet, to be sure,” said Athos, “what is there so
astonishing in that? He promised to be back by eight o’clock, and eight
is striking. Bravo, Planchet, you are a lad of your word, and if ever
you leave your master, I will promise you a place in my service.”
“Oh, no, never,” said Planchet, “I will never leave Monsieur
d’Artagnan.”
At the same time D’Artagnan felt that Planchet slipped a note into his
hand.
D’Artagnan felt a strong inclination to embrace Planchet as he had
embraced him on his departure; but he feared lest this mark of
affection, bestowed upon his lackey in the open street, might appear
extraordinary to passers-by, and he restrained himself.
“I have the note,” said he to Athos and to his friends.
“That’s well,” said Athos, “let us go home and read it.”
The note burned the hand of D’Artagnan. He wished to hasten their
steps; but Athos took his arm and passed it under his own, and the
young man was forced to regulate his pace by that of his friend.
At length they reached the tent, lit a lamp, and while Planchet stood
at the entrance that the four friends might not be surprised,
D’Artagnan, with a trembling hand, broke the seal and opened the so
anxiously expected letter.
It contained half a line, in a hand perfectly British, and with a
conciseness as perfectly Spartan:
_Thank you; be easy_.
D’Artagnan translated this for the others.
Athos took the letter from the hands of D’Artagnan, approached the
lamp, set fire to the paper, and did not let go till it was reduced to
a cinder.
Then, calling Planchet, he said, “Now, my lad, you may claim your seven
hundred livres, but you did not run much risk with such a note as
that.”
“I am not to blame for having tried every means to compress it,” said
Planchet.
“Well!” cried D’Artagnan, “tell us all about it.”
“_Dame_, that’s a long job, monsieur.”
“You are right, Planchet,” said Athos; “besides, the tattoo has been
sounded, and we should be observed if we kept a light burning much
longer than the others.”
“So be it,” said D’Artagnan. “Go to bed, Planchet, and sleep soundly.”
“My faith, monsieur! that will be the first time I have done so for
sixteen days.”
“And me, too!” said D’Artagnan.
“And me, too!” said Porthos.
“And me, too!” said Aramis.
“Well, if you will have the truth, and me, too!” said Athos.
Chapter XLIX.
FATALITY
Meantime Milady, drunk with passion, roaring on the deck like a lioness
that has been embarked, had been tempted to throw herself into the sea
that she might regain the coast, for she could not get rid of the
thought that she had been insulted by D’Artagnan, threatened by Athos,
and that she had quit France without being revenged on them. This idea
soon became so insupportable to her that at the risk of whatever
terrible consequences might result to herself from it, she implored the
captain to put her on shore; but the captain, eager to escape from his
false position—placed between French and English cruisers, like the bat
between the mice and the birds—was in great haste to regain England,
and positively refused to obey what he took for a woman’s caprice,