The Three Musketeers

D’Artagnan, a little recovered from his first surprise, had now time to study the dresses and countenances of those around him. In the midst of the most animated group was a musketeer of great height, of a haughty countenance, and so fantastical a costume as to attract general attention. He did not wear his uniform tunic, which was not absolutely indispensable at that period of less liberty, yet greater independence, but a close coat of celestial blue, slightly faded and worn, and on this coat a magnificent border of gold embroidery, which glittered like scales upon a sunlit stream; a long mantle or cloak of crimson velvet hung gracefully from his shoulders, discovering the front alone of his splendid belt, from which depended his enormous rapier. This musketeer, who had just come from guard, complained of having caught cold, and coughed occasionally with great affectation. Therefore, as he averred, he had taken his cloak; and whilst he was talking loudly over the group, and proudly curling his moustache, every one much admired the embroidered belt, and d’Artagnan more than any one else.

“What would you have?” said the musketeer. “It is the fashion; I know very well that it is foolish, but it is the fashion; besides, one must spend one’s hereditary property on something or other.”

“Ah, Porthos!” cried one of the bystanders, “do not try to make us believe that this lace comes from the paternal generosity: it was given you by the veiled lady with whom I met you the other Sunday, near the gate of St. Honore.”

“No, upon my honour, and by the faith of a gentleman, I bought it with my own money,” said he whom they called Porthos.

“Yes, as I bought this new purse with what my mistress put in the old,” cried another musketeer.

“But it is true,” said Porthos, “and the proof is, that I paid twelve pistoles for it.”

The wonder and admiration were redoubled, though the doubt still existed.

“Is it not so, Aramis?” inquired Porthos, turning to another musketeer.

The person thus appealed to formed a perfect contrast to the one who thus questioned him, and who designated him by the name of Aramis. He was a young man, not more than twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, with a soft and ingenuous countenance, a black and mild eye, and cheeks rosy and damask as an autumnal peach; his slender moustache marked a perfect straight line along his upper lip; his hands appeared to dread hanging down, for fear of making their veins swell; and he was continually pinching the tips of his ears, to make them preserve a delicate and transparent carnation hue. Habitually he talked little and slowly, often bowed, laughed quietly, merely showing his teeth, which were good, and of which, as of the rest of his person, he appeared to take the greatest care. He replied to his friend’s question by an affirmative inclination of the head, and this affirmation appeared to settle all doubt concerning the embroidery. They therefore continued to admire it, but said no more about it; and by a sudden change of thought, the conversation at once passed to another subject.

“What do you think of this story of Chalais’s squire?” inquired another musketeer, not addressing any one in particular, but the company in general.

“And what does he say?” demanded Porthos in a conceited tone.

“He says that he found Rochefort, the tool of the cardinal, at Brussels, disguised as a Capuchin friar; and that this cursed Rochefort, thanks to his disguise, had deceived M. de Laignes, simpleton as he is.”

“He is a simpleton,” said Porthos; “but is it a fact?”

“I heard it from Aramis,” answered the musketeer.

“Really!”

“Ah, you know it well enough, Porthos,” said Aramis.

“I told it you myself yesterday evening; do not let us talk any more about it.”

“Not talk any more about it! that’s your view of the matter,” said Porthos; “not talk any more about it! Egad, you would make short work of it. What! the cardinal sets a spy upon a gentleman, robs him of his correspondence through a traitor, a robber, a gallows-bird; cut Chalais’s throat through this spy, and by means of this correspondence, under the flimsy pretext that he desired to kill the king, and marry monsieur to the queen! No one knew one word of this enigma; you told us of it yesterday evening, to the great astonishment of every one; and whilst we are still all amazed at the news, you come today and say to us, ‘Let us talk no more about it!’”

“Well, then, since it better suits your humour, let us talk about it,” calmly replied Aramis.

“Were I poor Chalais’s squire,” cried Porthos, “this Rochefort would pass a bad minute with me!”

“And the red duke would make but short work with you,” replied Aramis.

“Ah, the red duke! bravo, bravo, the red duke!” exclaimed Porthos, with an approving nod, and clapping his hands; “the red duke is charming! Rest assured, my dear fellow, that I will disseminate the title. What a genius he has, this Aramis! what a pity that you could not follow your vocation, my dear fellow; what an exquisite abbé you would have made!”

“Oh, it is a mere transitory delay,” replied Aramis; “one day or other I shall be one; for you well know, Porthos, that I continue to study theology with that intention.”

“He will actually do as he says,” replied Porthos; “he will do it, sooner or later.”

“Very soon,” said Aramis.

“He only waits for one thing to decide what he will do, and to resume his cassock, which is hung up behind his uniform,” replied another musketeer.

“And what event does he wait for?” inquired another.

“He waits till the queen has given an heir to the crown of France.”

“Let us not jest on this subject, gentlemen,” said Porthos; “thank God, the queen is yet of an age to give it one.”

“It is said that the Duke of Buckingham is in France,” observed Aramis with a mocking laugh, which gave to his remark, simple as it was in appearance, a meaning sufficiently scandalous.

“Aramis, my friend, this time you are wrong,” rejoined Porthos, “and your wit always leads you too far. It would be the worse for you if M. de Treville heard you talking in this manner.”

“Do not lecture me, Porthos,” cried Aramis, in whose soft eye something like the lightning’s flash now passed.

“My dear fellow, be either musketeer or abbé; be one or the other; but not one and the other,” exclaimed Porthos. “You may remember that Athos told you the other day, that you eat at every rack. But let us not dispute, I beseech you; it would be perfectly useless. You know what is settled between you and me and Athos: you go to Madame d’Aiguillon’s, and you pay her attentions; you then repair to Madame de Bois Tracy, the cousin of Madame de Chevreuse, and a woman in whose good graces you are thought to stand highly. Nay, my dear fellow, confess not your good fortune: no one demands your secret; every one knows your discretion; but since you possess this virtue yourself, surely you will not grudge some portion of it to the queen. Let who will talk about the king and the cardinal, but the queen is sacred; and if you discuss her at all, let it be respectfully.”

“Porthos, you are as presumptuous as Narcissus!” said Aramis; “you know that I detest moralising, except from Athos. As to you, my dear fellow, you have rather too splendid a belt to be powerful on that subject. I will be an abbé if it suits me; in the meantime I am a musketeer, in which character I say what I choose, and at this moment I choose to tell you that you irritate me.”

“Aramis!”

“Porthos!”

“That will do! gentlemen! gentlemen!” cried out all around them.

“M. de Treville awaits M. d’Artagnan,” interrupted the lackey, opening the door of the cabinet.

At this declaration, during which the door remained open, every one was silent; and in the midst of this general silence the young Gascon, passing through part of the antechamber, entered the cabinet of the captain of the musketeers, felicitating himself with all his heart upon just escaping the conclusion of this singular quarrel.

3 The Audience (#ulink_8e5f3792-b3e0-5bfb-ac15-997cd174e7e0)

M. DE TREVILLE was at this moment in a very bad humour; nevertheless, as the young man bowed to the ground, he politely saluted him, and smiled on receiving his compliments, which in their accent, recalled both his youth and his country at the same time—a double recollection, which makes a man smile at every period of his life. But going towards the antechamber, and making a sign with his hand to d’Artagnan, as if requesting permission to finish with others before he began with him, he called three times, raising his voice each time so as to run through the intermediate scale between the tone of command and that of anger—“Athos!”—“Porthos”—“ARAMIS!” The two musketeers, whose acquaintance we have already made, and who answered to the two last of these three names, immediately quitted the group of which they formed a portion, and advanced towards the cabinet, the door of which was closed immediately they had passed its threshold. Their bearing, although not quite calm, was at the same time full of dignity and submission, and their apparent indifference excited the admiration of d’Artagnan, who saw in these men a species of demi-gods, and in their chief an Olympian Jupiter, armed with all his thunders.

When the two musketeers had entered, and the door was closed behind them—when the murmuring buzz of the antechamber, to which the summons that had been given had doubtless furnished a new topic, had recommenced—when, lastly, M. de Treville had paced the whole length of his cabinet three or four times in silence, but with a frowning brow, passing each time before Porthos and Aramis, upright and mute as on parade, he suddenly stopped directly in front of them, and measuring them from top to toe with an angry look, exclaimed, “Do you know what the king said to me, and that not later than last evening? Do you know, gentlemen?”

“No,” answered the two musketeers, after a moment’s silence; “no, sir, we do not.”

“But we hope you will do us the honour of informing us,” added Aramis in his most polished tone, and with the most graceful bow.

“He told me that, for the future, he should recruit his musketeers from those of the cardinal.”

“From those of the cardinal! And why?” demanded Porthos with heat.

“Because he saw very well that his thin dregs required to be enlivened by some good and generous wine!”

The two musketeers blushed up to the very eyes.

D’Artagnan knew not where he was, and wished himself an hundred feet below the earth.

“Yes, yes,” continued M. De Treville, becoming more warm, “yes, his majesty was right; for, upon my honour, the musketeers cut but a sorry figure at court. Yesterday, whilst playing with the king, the cardinal recounted, with an air of condolence which much annoyed me, that on the previous day these cursed musketeers, these devils incarnate—and he dwelt on these words with an ironical accent, which annoyed me the more—these cutters and slashers—(looking at me with the eye of a tiger)—had loitered beyond closing time in a tavern in the Rue Ferou, and that a picquet of his guards (I thought he would laugh in my face) had been obliged to arrest the disturbers. ‘Od’s-life! you ought to know something about this. Arrest the musketeers! You were amongst them—you, sirs! do not deny it; you were recognised, and the cardinal named you. But it is all my own fault; yes, my fault; for I choose my own men. Look ye, Aramis! why did you ask me for a tunic, when a cassock suited you so well? Hark ye, Porthos! have you got such a splendid belt, only to hang to it a sword of straw? And Athos—I do not see Athos; where is he?”