Chapter 3 - The Audience
M. De Tréville was at this moment in a very ill-humour, nevertheless he politely saluted the young man, who bowed to the very ground, and he smiled on receiving his compliment, the Béarnese accent of which recalled to him at the same time his youth and his country, a double remembrance which makes a man smile at all ages. But stepping almost immediately towards the antechamber, and making a sign to D’Artagnan with his hand, as if to ask his permission to finish with others before he began with him, he called three times, with a louder voice at each time, so that he went through all the tones between the imperative accent and the angry accent.
“Athos! Porthos! Aramis!”
The two musketeers with whom we have already made acquaintance, and who answered to the last two of these three names, immediately quitted the group of which they formed a part, and advanced towards the office, the door of which closed after them as soon as they had entered. Their bearing, though not entirely composed, was full of a dignified and submissive indifference, which excited the admiration of D’Artagnan, who beheld in these two men demigods, and in their leader an Olympian Jupiter, armed with all his thunders.
When the two musketeers had entered, when the door was closed behind them, when the buzzing murmur of the antechamber, to which the summons which had just been made had doubtless furnished fresh aliment, had recommenced, when M. de Tréville had three or four times paced in silence, and with a frowning brow, the whole length of his office, passing each time before Porthos and Aramis, who were as upright and silent as if on parade, he stopped all at once full in front of them, and looking at them angrily from head to foot,
“Do you know what the king said to me,” cried he, “and that no longer ago than yesterday evening—do you know, gentlemen?”
“No,” replied the two musketeers, after a moment’s silence; “no, sir, we do not.”
“But I hope that you will do us the honour to tell us,” added Aramis, in his politest tone and with the most graceful bow.“He told me that he should henceforth recruit his musketeers from among the guards of the cardinal.”
“The guards of the cardinal! And why so?” asked Porthos warmly.
“Because he plainly perceives that his piquette1 stands in need of being enlivened by a mixture of good wine.”
The two musketeers coloured up to the eyes. D’Artagnan did not know where he was, and would have liked to be a hundred feet underground.
“Yes, yes,” continued M. de Tréville, growing warmer as he spoke, “and his Majesty was right, for, upon my honour, it is true that the musketeers make but a miserable figure at court. The cardinal related yesterday, while playing with the king, with an air of condolence not very pleasing to me, that the day before yesterday those damned musketeers, those dare-devils—he dwelt upon those words with an ironical tone still more displeasing to me—those cleavers, added he, glancing at me with his tiger-cat’s eye, had been out late in the Rue Férou, in a tavern, and that a patrol of his guards (I thought he was going to laugh in my face) had been forced to arrest the rioters. Zounds! you must know something about it! Arrest musketeers! You were among them—you were! Don’t deny it; you were recognized, and the cardinal named you. But it’s all my fault; yes, it’s all my fault, because it is I myself who select my men. You, now, Aramis, why the devil did you ask me for a uniform when you were going to be so fine in a cassock? And you, Porthos, do you only wear such a fine golden baldric to suspend a sword of straw from it? And Athos—I don’t see Athos! Where is he?”
“Sir,” replied Aramis, in a sorrowful tone, “he is ill, very ill!”
“Ill—very ill, say you? And what is his malady?”
“Well, captain,” said Porthos, quite beside himself, “the truth is that we were six against six. But we were not captured by fair means, and before we had time to draw our swords two of our party were dead; and Athos, grievously wounded, was very little better. For you know Athos. Well, captain, he endeavoured twice to get up, and fell again twice. And we did not surrender—no! they dragged us away by force. On the way we escaped. As for Athos, they believed him to be dead, and left him very quietly on the field of battle, not thinking it worth the while to carry him away. Now, that’s the whole story. What the devil, captain, one cannot win all one’s battles! The great Pompey lost that of Pharsalia; and Francis the First, who was, as I have heard say, as good as any one else, nevertheless lost the battle of Pavia.”
“And I have the honour of assuring you that I killed one of them with his own sword,” said Aramis, “for mine was broken at the first parry. Killed him, or poniarded him, sir, as is most agreeable to you.”
“But pray, sir,” continued Aramis, who, seeing his captain relenting, took courage to make a petition—“pray, sir, do not say that Athos is wounded. He would be in despair if that should come to the ears of the king; and as the wound is very serious, seeing that after crossing the shoulder it penetrates into the chest, it is to be feared—”
At this instant the tapestry was raised, and a noble and handsome face, but frightfully pale, appeared under the fringe.
“Athos!” cried the two musketeers.
“Athos!” repeated M. de Tréville to 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, sir; what do you want with me?”
And at these words the musketeer, in irreproachable costume, belted as usual, with a firm step entered the room. M. de Tréville, moved to the bottom of his heart by this proof of courage, sprang towards 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 fellows on earth. Your hand, Athos!”
And without waiting until the newcomer should himself respond 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 secret as possible, was known to all. A loud murmur of satisfaction hailed the last words of the captain, and two or three persons, carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, appeared through the openings of the tapestry. Doubtless M. de Tréville was about to reprehend severely this infringement on the rules of etiquette, when he suddenly felt the hand of Athos contract within his, and upon turning his eyes towards him, perceived he was about to faint. At the same instant Athos, who had rallied all his energies to contend against pain, at length overcome by it, fell upon the floor as if he was dead.
Immediately M. de Tréville opened the door and pointed the way to Porthos and Aramis, who carried off their comrade in their arms.
When all had gone out and the door closed, M. de Tréville, on turning round, found himself alone with the young man. The stirring event which had just taken place had in some degree broken the thread of his ideas. He inquired what was the desire of his persevering visitor. D’Artagnan then repeated his name, and in an instant, recalling his memory of the past and the present, M. de Tréville was in possession of the situation.
“Pardon me,” said he, smiling—“pardon me, my dear compatriot, but I had entirely 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 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 subject, came straight to the point.
“I loved your father very much,” said he. “What can I do for the son? Tell me quickly—my time is not my own.”
“Sir,” said D’Artagnan, “on leaving 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 have become aware of the value of such a favour, and tremble lest I should not merit it.”
“Well, young man,” replied M. de Tréville, “it is, in fact, a favour, but it may not be so far beyond your hopes as you believe, or rather as you appear to believe. Yet 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 regiment less favoured than ours.”
D’Artagnan bowed without replying, feeling his desire to don the musketeer’s uniform vastly increased by the difficulties which he had learned must precede 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—“but on account of my old companion, your father, as I have said, I will do something for you, young man. I will write a letter to-day to the director of the Royal Academy, and to-morrow 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 riding, 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 any 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 can 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 viaticum, the only 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 at 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 the latter, 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 was to serve me as a buckler on my way. You can fancy whether I often hid myself behind it or no!”
Flattery was at that period very much in fashion, and M. de Tréville loved incense as well as a king, or even a cardinal. He could not then refrain from a smile of evident satisfaction; but this smile soon disappeared, and returning to the adventure at Meung,
“Tell me,” continued he, “had not this gentleman 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 ever I should meet him again, and I will find him, I swear, were it in hell—”
“He was waiting for a woman?” continued Tréville.
“He at least departed immediately after having conversed for a minute with the one for whom he was waiting.”
“You do not know what was the subject of their conversation?”
“He gave her a box, told her that box contained her instructions, and desired her not to open it before she arrived in London.”
“Was this an Englishwoman?”
“He called her Milady.”
“It is he! it must be he!” murmured Tréville. “I thought he was still at Brussels!”
“O sir, if you know who and what 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 De 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 thought will not prevent me,” replied D’Artagnan, “if ever I should happen to meet with him—”
“In the meantime, if you will take my advice, you will not seek him,” said Tréville, and leaving his young 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 till they disappeared at the bend of the street.
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 that 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 room, crying, “Ah, ’sblood! he shall not escape me this time.”
“Who? 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.
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1 A liquor squeezed out of grapes, when they have been pressed, and water poured upon them.“I did not know that,” replied M. de Tréville in a somewhat softened tone. “The cardinal exaggerated, as I perceive.”
Chapter 4 - The Shoulder of Athos, the Baldric of Porthos, and the Handkerchief of Aramis
D’artagnan, in a state of rage, crossed the antechamber in three bounds, and was darting towards the stairs, which he reckoned upon descending four steps 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 hitting his shoulder violently, made him utter a cry, or rather a howl.
“Excuse me,” said D’Artagnan, endeavouring 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 scarf and stopped him.
“You are in a hurry,” said the musketeer, as pale as a sheet. “Under that pretence you run against me. You say ‘Excuse me!’ and you believe that that is sufficient?”
“Loose your hold, then, I beg of you, and let me go where my business calls me,” replied D’Artagnan.
