“Milady must see nothing of this fellow,” continued the stranger. “She will soon pass by; she is already late. I had better get on horseback, and go and meet her. I should like, however, to know what this letter addressed to Tréville contains.”
And the unknown, muttering to himself, directed his steps towards the kitchen.
In the meantime the host, who entertained no doubt that it was the presence of the young man which was driving the unknown from his hostelry, had gone up to his wife’s chamber, and found D’Artagnan entirely returned to consciousness. Giving him to understand that the police could deal with him pretty severely for having sought a quarrel with a great lord (for in the opinion of the host the unknown could be nothing less than a great lord), he insisted that, notwithstanding his weakness, he should get up and depart as quickly as possible. D’Artagnan, half-stupefied, without his doublet, and with his head all swathed with bandages, arose then, and urged on by the host, began to descend the stairs; but on arriving at the kitchen the first thing he saw was his antagonist, who stood quietly talking beside the step of a heavy carriage drawn by two large Norman horses.
His interlocutor, whose head appeared through the carriage window, was a woman of from twenty to two-and-twenty years of age. We have already observed with what rapidity D’Artagnan took in every feature of a face. He perceived then, at a glance, that this woman was young and beautiful; and her style of beauty struck him the more forcibly on account of its being totally different from that of the southern countries in which D’Artagnan had hitherto resided. She was pale and fair, with long curls falling in profusion over her shoulders; had large languishing blue eyes, rosy lips, and hands of alabaster. She was talking with great animation with the unknown.
“His eminence, then, orders me—” said the lady.
“To return instantly to England, and to inform him immediately should the duke leave London.”
“And my other instructions?” asked the fair traveller.
“They are contained in this box, which you will not open until you are on the other side of the Channel.”
“Very well; and you, what are you going to do?”
“I—oh! I shall return to Paris.”
“What! without chastising this insolent boy?” asked the lady.
The unknown was about to reply, but at the moment he opened his mouth D’Artagnan, who had heard all, rushed forward through the open door.
“This insolent boy chastises others,” cried he; “and I sincerely hope that he whom he means to chastise will not escape him as he did before.”
“Will not escape him?” replied the unknown, knitting his brow.
“No; before a woman you would not dare to fly, I presume?”
“Remember,” cried milady, seeing the unknown lay his hand on his sword—“remember that the least delay may ruin everything.”
“True,” cried the gentleman. “Begone then your way, and I will go mine.” And bowing to the lady, he sprang into his saddle, her coachman at the same time applying his whip vigorously to his horses. The two interlocutors thus separated, taking opposite directions, at full gallop.
“Base coward! false nobleman!” cried D’Artagnan, springing forward. But his wound had rendered him too weak to support such an exertion.
“He is a coward indeed,” grumbled the host, drawing near to D’Artagnan, and endeavouring by this little flattery to make up matters with the young man, as the heron of the fable did with the snail he had despised the evening before.
“Yes, a base coward,” murmured D’Artagnan; “but she—she was very beautiful.”
“What she?” demanded the host.
“Milady,” faltered D’Artagnan, and fainted the second time.
On the following morning, at five o’clock, D’Artagnan arose, and descending to the kitchen without help, asked, among other ingredients the list of which has not come down to us, for some oil, some wine, and some rosemary, and with his mother’s recipe in his hand, composed a balsam with which he anointed his numerous wounds, replacing his bandages himself, and positively refusing the assistance of any doctor. Thanks, no doubt, to the efficacy of the gypsy’s balsam, and perhaps, also, thanks to the absence of any doctor, D’Artagnan walked about that same evening, and was almost cured by the morrow.
But when the time of settlement came, D’Artagnan found nothing in his pocket but his little worn velvet purse with the eleven crowns it contained; as to the letter addressed to M. de Tréville, it had disappeared.
“My letter of recommendation!” cried D’Artagnan; “my letter of recommendation! or, by God’s blood, I will spit you all like so many ortolans!”
“Does the letter contain anything valuable?” demanded the host, after a few minutes of useless investigation.
“Zounds! I think it does, indeed,” cried the Gascon, who reckoned upon this letter for making his way at court; “it contained my fortune!”
A ray of light all at once broke upon the mind of the host, who was uttering maledictions upon finding nothing.
“That letter is not lost!” cried he.
“What!” said D’Artagnan.
“No; it has been stolen from you.”
“Stolen! by whom?”
“By the gentleman who was here yesterday. He came down into the kitchen, where your doublet was. He remained there some time alone. I would lay a wager he has stolen it.”
“Do you think so?” answered D’Artagnan.
“I tell you I am sure of it,” continued the host. “When I informed him that your lordship was the protégé of M. de Tréville, and that you even had a letter for that illustrious nobleman, he appeared to be very much disturbed, and asked me where that letter was, and immediately came down into the kitchen, where he knew your doublet was.”
“Then he is the thief,” replied D’Artagnan. “I will complain to M. de Tréville, and M. de Tréville will complain to the king.” He then drew two crowns majestically from his purse, gave them to the host, who accompanied him, cap in hand, to the gate, remounted his yellow horse, which bore him without any further accident to the gate of St. Antoine at Paris, where his owner sold him for three crowns, which was a very good price, considering that D’Artagnan had ridden him hard on the last stretch.
So D’Artagnan entered Paris on foot, carrying his little packet under his arm, and wandered around till he found an apartment to be let on terms suited to the scantiness of his means. This chamber was a sort of garret, situated in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, near the Luxembourg.
Then he went to the Quai de la Ferraille, to have a new blade put to his sword, and came back to the Louvre, and inquired of the first musketeer he met the situation of the h?tel of M. de Tréville, which proved to be in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, in the immediate vicinity of the chamber hired by D’Artagnan, a circumstance which appeared to him to be a happy augury for the outcome of his journey.
After which, satisfied with the way in which he had conducted himself at Meung, without remorse for the past, confident in the present, and full of hope for the future, he retired to bed, and slept the sleep of the brave.
This sleep, rustic as it was, brought him to nine o’clock in the morning, at which hour he rose in order to repair to the residence of the famous M. de Tréville, the third personage in the kingdom, according to the estimation of his father.
Chapter 2 - The Antechamber of M. de Tréville
M. De Troisville, as his family was still called in Gascony, or M. de Tréville, as he had ended by styling himself in Paris, had really commenced life as D’Artagnan now did—that is to say, without a sou in his pocket. but with a fund of courage, shrewdness, and intelligence which makes the poorest Gascon gentleman often derive more in his imagination from the paternal inheritance than the richest nobleman of the Perigord or Berry receives in reality.
He was the friend of the king, who honoured highly, as every one knows, the memory of his father, Henry IV. Louis XIII made De Tréville the captain of his musketeers, who were to Louis XIII, in devotedness, or rather in fanaticism, what his Ordinaries had been to Henry III, and his Scotch Guard to Louis XI.
On his part, and in this respect, the cardinal was not behindhand with the king. When he saw the formidable and chosen body by which Louis XIII surrounded himself, this second, or rather this first, king of France became desirous that he too should have his guard. He had his musketeers, then, as Louis XIII had his; and these two powerful rivals vied with each other in procuring the most celebrated swordsmen, not only from all the provinces of France, but also from all foreign states.
Loose, tipsy, gashed, the king’s musketeers, or rather M. de Tréville’s, spread themselves about in the saloons, in the public walks, and the public sports, shouting, twirling their moustaches, clanking their swords, and taking great pleasure in bustling against the guards of the cardinal whenever they could fall in with them; then drawing their swords in the open streets, with a thousand jests; sometimes killed, but sure in that case to be both wept and avenged; often killing others, but then certain of not rotting in prison, M. de Tréville being there to claim them. And so M. de Tréville was praised in all keys by these men, who absolutely adored him, and who, ruffians as they were, trembled before him like scholars before their master, obedient to his least word, and ready to sacrifice themselves to wipe out the least insult.
The court of his h?tel, situated in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, resembled a camp as early as six o’clock in the morning in summer and eight o’clock in winter. From fifty to sixty musketeers, who appeared to relieve each other there, in order always to present an imposing number, paraded constantly about, armed to the teeth and ready for anything. On one of those immense staircases, upon whose space modern civilization would build a whole house, ascended and descended the solicitors of Paris, who were in search of favours of any kind—gentlemen from the provinces anxious to be enrolled, and servants in all sorts of liveries, bringing messages from their masters to M. de Tréville. In the antechamber, upon long circular benches, reposed the elect—that is to say, those who were called. In this apartment a continued buzzing prevailed from morning till night, while M. de Tréville, in his office contiguous to this antechamber, received visits, listened to complaints, gave his orders, and, like the king in his balcony at the Louvre, had only to place himself at the window to review both men and arms.
The day on which D’Artagnan presented himself the assemblage was imposing, particularly for a provincial just arriving from his province. It is true that this provincial was a Gascon, and that, particularly at this period, the compatriots of D’Artagnan had the reputation of not being easily intimidated. When he had once passed the massive door, covered with long square-headed nails, he fell into the midst of a troop of military, who were passing each other in the court, calling out, quarrelling, and playing tricks with one another. To make way through these turbulent and conflicting waves it was necessary to be an officer, a great noble, or a pretty woman.
It was, then, in the midst of this tumult and disorder that our young man advanced with a beating heart. Holding his long rapier close to his lanky leg, and keeping one hand on the edge of his cap, he smiled with the embarrassment of a provincial who affects confidence.
Being, however, a perfect stranger in the crowd of M. de Tréville’s courtiers, and this his first appearance in that place, he was at length noticed, and a person came to him and asked him his business there. At this demand D’Artagnan gave his name very modestly, laid a stress upon the title of compatriot, and begged the servant who had put the question to him to request a moment’s audience of M. de Tréville—a request which the other, with a patronizing air, promised to convey in time and season.D’Artagnan, a little recovered from his first surprise, had now leisure to study costumes and countenances.
The centre of the most animated group was a musketeer of great height, of a haughty countenance, and dressed in a costume so peculiar as to attract general attention. He did not wear the uniform cloak—which, indeed, at that time of less liberty and greater independence was not obligatory—but a cerulean blue doublet, a little faded and worn, and over this a magnificent baldric worked in gold, which shone like water-ripples in the sun. A long cloak of crimson velvet fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, disclosing in front the splendid baldric, from which was suspended a gigantic rapier.
This musketeer had just come off guard, complained of having a cold, coughed from time to time affectedly. It was for this reason, he said to those around him, he had put on his cloak; and while he spoke with a lofty air and twirled his moustache, all admired his embroidered baldric, and D’Artagnan more than any one.
“What can you expect?” said the musketeer. “The fashion is coming in. It is a folly, I admit, but still it is the fashion. Besides, one must lay out one’s inheritance somehow.”
“Ah, Porthos!” cried one of his companions, “don’t think to palm upon us that you obtained that baldric by paternal generosity: it must have been given to you by that veiled lady with whom I met you the other Sunday, near the gate Saint-Honoré.”
“No, ’pon honour; by the faith of a gentleman, I bought it with my own money,” answered he whom they had just designated by the name of Porthos.
The wonder was increased, though the doubt continued to exist.
“Didn’t I, Aramis?” said Porthos, turning towards another musketeer.
This other musketeer formed a perfect contrast to his interrogator, who had just designated him by the name of Aramis. He was a young man, of about two or three and twenty, with an open, ingenuous countenance, dark mild eyes, and cheeks rosy and downy as an autumn peach; his delicate moustache marked a perfectly straight line upon his upper lip; he appeared to dread to lower his hands lest their veins should swell, and he pinched the tips of his ears from time to time to preserve their delicate pink transparency. Habitually he spoke little and slowly, bowed frequently, laughed without noise, showing his teeth, which were fine, and of which, as of the rest of his person, he appeared to take the greatest care. He answered the appeal of his friend by an affirmative nod of the head.
This affirmation appeared to dispel all doubts with regard to the baldric. They continued to admire it, but said no more about it; and by one of those rapid changes of thought, the conversation passed suddenly to another subject.
“M. de Tréville awaits M. D’Artagnan,” interrupted a servant, throwing open the door of the office.At this announcement, during which the door remained open, every one became mute, and amidst the general silence the young man crossed the antechamber at one end, and entered the apartment of the captain of the musketeers.
