The host, on seeing a young man followed by a lackey advanced respectfully to the door.
“I was thinking,” said the host, “that it was not the first time I had had the honour of seeing you.”
“Bah! I have passed, perhaps, ten times through Chantilly, and out of the ten times I have stopped at least three or four times at your house. Why, I was here only ten or twelve days ago. I was conducting some friends, musketeers, one of whom, by-the-bye, had a dispute with a stranger, a man who, for some unknown reason, sought a quarrel with him.”
“Ah, exactly so!” said the host; “I remember it perfectly. Is it not M. Porthos that your Lordship means?”
“Yes; that is my companion’s name. Good Heavens! my dear host, has any misfortune happened to him?”
“Your honour must have observed that he could not continue his journey.”
“Why, but he promised to rejoin us, and we have seen nothing of him.”
“He has done us the honour of remaining here.”
“Well, can I see Porthos?”
“Certainly, sir. Take the stairs on your right; go up the first flight, and knock at No. I. Only warn him that it is you.”
“Warn him! Why should I do that?”
“Nobody enters his chamber except his servant.”
“What! Mousqueton is here, then?”
“Yes, sir; five days after his departure he came back in a very bad humour. It appears that he had also met with unpleasant experiences on his journey. Unfortunately he is more nimble that his master, so that for his master’s sake he turns everything upside down; and as he thinks we might refuse what he asks for, he takes all he wants without asking at all.”
“And what took place?”
“Oh, the affair was not long, I assure you. They placed themselves on guard. The stranger made a feint and a lunge, and that so rapidly that when M. de Porthos came to parry he had already three inches of steel in his breast. He fell on his back. The stranger immediately placed the point of his sword on his throat; and M. Porthos, finding himself at the mercy of his adversary, confessed himself conquered. Whereupon the stranger asked his name, and learning that it was Porthos, and not D’Artagnan, assisted him to rise, brought him back to the hotel, mounted his horse, and disappeared.”
“Very well. Now I know all that I wished to know. Porthos’s room is, you say, on the first story, No. I?”
Saying these words, D’Artagnan went upstairs. At the top of the stairs, on the most conspicuous door of the corridor, was traced in black ink a gigantic “No. I.” D’Artagnan knocked, and upon being told from inside to enter, went into the chamber.
Porthos was in bed, and was playing a game of lansquenet with Mousqueton, to keep his hand in, while a spit loaded with patridges was turning before the fire, and at each side of a large chimney-piece, over two chafing-dishes, were boiling two stewpans, from which exhaled a double odour of rabbit and garlic stews, very grateful to the olfactory nerves. In addition to this, he perceived that the top of a wardrobe and the marble of a stand were covered with empty bottles.
At the sight of his friend Porthos uttered a loud cry of joy; and Mousqueton, rising respectfully, yielded his place to him, and went to give an eye to the two stewpans, over which he appeared to have especial care.
“Ah, zounds! is that you?” said Porthos to D’Artagnan. “Welcome! Excuse my not coming to meet you. But,” added he, looking at D’Artagnan with a certain degree of uneasiness, “you know what has happened to me?”
“Not exactly.”
“Has the landlord told you nothing, then?”
“I asked after you, and came straight up.”
Porthos seemed to breathe more freely.
“And what, then, has happened to you, my dear Porthos?” continued D’Artagnan.
“Why, on making a thrust at my adversary, whom I had already hit three times, and with whom I meant to finish by a fourth, my foot slipped on a stone, and I sprained my knee.”
“Indeed!”
“Honour bright! Luckily for the rascal, for I should have left him dead on the spot, I assure you.”
“And what became of him?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He had enough, and set off without wanting any more. But you, my dear D’Artagnan, what has happened to you?”
“So that this sprain,” continued D’Artagnan, “my dear Porthos, keeps you here in bed?”
“Really that’s all! I shall be about again, however, in a few days.”
While Porthos and Mousqueton were breakfasting with the appetites of convalescents, and with that brotherly cordiality which unites men in misfortune, D’Artagnan related how Aramis had been wounded, and was obliged to stop at Crèvec?ur; how he had left Athos fighting at Amiens with four men, who accused him of being a counterfeiter; and how he, D’Artagnan, had been forced to pass over the Comte de Wardes’s body in order to reach England.
But there D’Artagnan’s disclosure ended.
At that moment Planchet entered. He informed his master that the horses were sufficiently refreshed, and that it would be possible to sleep at Clermont.
As D’Artagnan was tolerably reassured with regard to Porthos, and as he was anxious to obtain news of his two other friends, he held out his hand to the sick man, and told him he was going to resume his route in order to prosecute his researches. However, as he reckoned upon returning by the same road, if, in seven or eight days, Porthos were still at the hotel of the Great St. Martin, he would call for him on his way.
Porthos replied that, according to all probability, his sprain would not permit him to depart during that time.
D’Artagnan, after having again recommended Porthos to the care of Mousqueton, and paid his reckoning to the landlord, resumed his route with Planchet.
Chapter 24 - Aramis
D’Artagnan traversed the six or eight leagues between Chantilly and Crèvec?ur.
This time not a host but a hostess received him. D’Artagnan was a physiognomist. His eye took in at a glance the plump, cheerful countenance of the mistress of the place, and he at once perceived there was no occasion for dissembling with her, or of fearing anything from such a jolly woman.
“My good dame,” asked D’Artagnan, “could you tell me what has become of a friend of mine whom we were obliged to leave here about ten days ago?”
“A handsome young man, of twenty-three or twenty-four, mild, amiable, and well made?”
“That’s it.”
“Wounded, moreover, in the shoulder?”
“Just so.”
“Well, sir, he is still here.”
“Ah, zounds! my dear dame,” said D’Artagnan, springing from his horse and throwing the bridle to Planchet, “you restore me to life. Where is my dear Aramis? Let me embrace him! for, I confess it, I am quite anxious to see him again.”
“Well, you have only to take the right-hand staircase in the yard, and knock at No. 5 on the second floor.”
D’Artagnan hastened in the direction pointed out, and turned the handle of the door No. 5.
The door opened, and D’Artagnan went into the chamber.
“Good-afternoon to you, dear D’Artagnan,” said Aramis. “Believe me, I am very glad to see you.”
“So am I delighted to see you,” said D’Artagnan, and he added a reference to Aramis’s wound.
“My wound, my dear D’Artagnan, has been a warning to me from Heaven.”
“Your wound? Bah! it is nearly healed, and I am sure it is not that which at the present moment gives you the most pain.”
“What wound?” asked Aramis, colouring.
“You have one in your heart, Aramis, deeper and more painful—a wound made by a woman.”
The eye of Aramis kindled in spite of himself.
“Ah,” said he, dissembling his emotion under a feigned carelessness, “do not talk of such things. What! I think of such things? I have love-pangs? Vanitas vanitatum! According to your idea, then, my brain is turned! And for whom? For some grisette, some chamber-maid, whom I have courted in some garrison! Fie!”
“I crave your pardon, my dear Aramis, but I thought you aimed higher.”
“Higher? And who am I, to nourish such ambition? A poor musketeer, a beggar and unknown, who hates slavery, and finds himself out of place in the world.”
“Well, then, let us say no more about it,” said D’Artagnan; “and let us burn this letter, which, no doubt, announces to you some fresh infidelity of your grisette or your chambermaid.”
“What letter?” cried Aramis eagerly.
“A letter which was sent to your rooms in your absence, and which was given to me for you.”
“But whom is that letter from?”
“Oh, from some tearful waiting-maid, some despairing grisette; from Madame de Chevreuse’s chambermaid, perhaps, who must have been obliged to return to Tours with her mistress, and who, in order to make herself attractive, stole some perfumed paper, and sealed her letter with a duchess’s coronet.”
“What are you saying?”
“There! I really think I must have lost it,” said the young man mischievously, while pretending to search for it. “But fortunately the world is a sepulchre; men, and consequently women also, are only shadows, and love is a sentiment upon which you cry, ‘Fie, fie!”’
“DArtagnan! D’Artagnan!” cried Aramis, “you are killing me!”
“At last, here it is!” said D’Artagnan. He drew the letter from his pocket.
Aramis sprang towards him, seized the letter, read it, or rather devoured it, his countenance absolutely beaming with delight.
“Your waiting-maid seems to have an agreeable style,” said the carrier carelessly.
“Thanks, D’Artagnan, thanks!” cried Aramis, almost in a stare of delirium. “She was forced to return to Tours; she is not faithless; she still loves me! Come, dear friend, come, let me embrace you; happiness stifles me!” And the two friends began to dance round.
At that moment Bazin entered.
“Be off, you scoundrel!” cried Aramis. “Order a larded hare, a fat capon, a leg of mutton with garlic, and four bottles of old Burgundy! ’Sdeath! let us drink while the wine is fresh. Let us drink heartily, and tell me something about what is going on in the world yonder.”
Chapter 25 - The Wife of Athos
“Now we still have to get news of Athos,” said D’Artagnan to the vivacious Aramis, when he had informed him of all that had passed since their departure from the capital, and when a good dinner had made one of them forget his woes and the other his fatigue.
“Do you think any harm can have happened to him?” asked Aramis. “Athos is so cool, so brave, and handles his sword so skilfully.”
“There is no doubt of that. Nobody has a higher opinion of the courage and skill of Athos than I have; but I like better to hear my sword clang against lances than against staves. I fear lest Athos has been carried down by a mob of menials. Those fellows strike hard, and don’t leave off in a hurry. This is my reason for wishing to set out again as soon as I possibly can.”
“I will try to accompany you,” said Aramis, “though I scarcely feel in a condition to mount on horseback. When do you set out?”
“To-morrow at daybreak.”
“Till to-morrow, then,” said Aramis; “for though you are made of iron you must need repose.”
The next morning, when D’Artagnan entered Aramis’s chamber, he found him standing at the window.
“My dear Aramis; take care of yourself,” said he; “I will go alone in search of Athos.”
“You are a man of bronze,” replied Aramis.
“No, I have good luck, that is all. But how do you mean to pass your time till I come back?”
Aramis smiled. “I will make verses,” said he.
“Yes, verses perfumed with the odour of the note from Madame de Chevreuse’s serving-maid.”
“Oh, make yourself easy on that head,” replied Aramis; “you will find me ready to follow you.”
They took leave of each other, and ten minutes later, after commending his friend to the care of Bazin and the hostess, D’Artagnan was trotting along in the direction of Amiens.
About eleven o’clock in the morning they perceived Ameins. At half-past eleven they were at the door of the cursed inn.
D’Artagnan related to Athos how he had found Porthos and Aramis. As he finished, the landlord entered with wine and a ham.
“Good!” said Athos, filling his glass and D’Artagnan’s. “Here’s to Porthos and Aramis! But, my friend, what is the matter with you, and what has happened to you personally? You don’t look happy.”
“Alas!” said D’Artagnan, “it is because I am the most unfortunate of all.”
“You unfortunate!” said Athos. “Come! how the devil can you be unfortunate? Tell me that.”
“Presently,” said D’Artagnan.
“Presently! And why presently? Because you think I am drunk, D’Artagnan? Keep this in mind: 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 Madame Bonacieux. Athos listened to him without moving a muscle, and when he had finished,
“Trifles all that,” said Athos—“nothing but trifles!” That was Athos’s favourite expression.
“You always say trifles, my dear Athos,” said D’Artagnan, “and that comes very ill from you, who have never been in love.”
Athos’s dull eye flashed suddenly, but it was only a flash; it became dull and vacant as before.
“True,” said he quietly, “I have never been in love.”
“Acknowledge, then, you stony-hearted man,” said D’Artagnan, “that you have no right to be so hard on us whose hearts are tender.”
“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 concerns you?”
“Or one of my friends. What difference does it make?”
“Tell it, Athos, tell it.”
“Let us drink! That will be better.”
“Drink while you tell it!”
“Not a bad idea!” said Athos, emptying and filling his glass; “the two things go marvellously well together.”
“I am all attention,” said D’Artagnan.
Athos collected himself, and in proportion as he did so, D’Artagnan saw that he became paler. He was at that period of intoxication in which vulgar drinkers fall on the floor and go to sleep. But he dreamed aloud, without sleeping. This somnambulism of drunkenness had something frightful about it.
“You absolutely wish it?” he asked.
“I beg you to do it,” said D’Artagnan.
“Be it, then, as you desire. A friend of mine—please to observe, a friend of mine, not myself,” said Athos, interrupting himself with a gloomy smile—“one of the counts of my province (that is to say, of Berry), noble as a Dandolo or a Montmorency, when he was twenty-five years old fell in love with a girl of sixteen, beautiful as an angel. Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind—not a woman’s mind, but a poet’s. She did not please; she intoxicated. She lived in a small town with her brother, who was a vicar. Both had recently come into the country. Nobody knew where they came from; but on seeing her so lovely and her brother so pious, nobody thought of asking where they came from. They were said, however, to be of good extraction. My friend, who was lord of the country, might have seduced her; or he might have seized her forcibly, at his will, for he was master. Who would have come to the assistance of two strangers, two unknown persons? Unfortunately, he was an honourable man; he married her. The fool! the ass! the idiot!”
