Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 57, No. 351, January 1845

"'If there is any left,' growled Athos in a tone of raillery.

"'What does he mean — if there is any left?' cried the host, who felt a cold perspiration break out all over him.

"'Nonsense, there will be some left,' replied D'Artagnan; 'two men cannot have drunk the whole cellar out.'

"The Englishmen sheathed their swords, and D'Artagnan related to them the history of the imprisonment of Athos, upon hearing which they greatly blamed the innkeeper.

"'Now, gentlemen,' said D'Artagnan, 'if you will be pleased to return to your apartment, in ten minutes you shall have what you require.'

"The Englishmen bowed and retired.

"'I am alone, my dear Athos,' said D'Artagnan. — 'Open the door.'

"There was a great noise of fagots and beams falling down; the besieged was demolishing his counter-scarps and bastions. The next moment the door opened, and the pale face of the mousquetaire appeared. D'Artagnan sprang forward and embraced him, but when he tried to lead him out of the cellar, he perceived that Athos staggered.

"'You are wounded?' cried he.

"'I! not the least,' was the reply. 'I am dead drunk, that is all, and never did any man better deserve to be so. Fore God! mine host, I have drunk for my share, at least one hundred and fifty bottles.'

"'Heaven have mercy on me!' cried the host. 'If the servant has drunk half as much as the master, I am a ruined man.'

"'Grimaud knows his place too well to drink the same wine as his master; he has drunk from the cask. By-the-by, I think he must have forgotten to put in the spigot — I hear a running.'

"D'Artagnan burst into a fit of laughter. The innkeeper was in a high fever. Just then Grimaud showed himself behind his master, his carbine on his shoulder, and his head shaking like that of the drunken satyr in some of Rubens' pictures. His clothes were smeared with an unctuous liquid, which the host immediately recognized as his best olive oil.

"D'Artagnan and Athos now crossed the common room, and installed themselves in the best apartment of the hotel; while the innkeeper and his wife lighted lamps, and rushed into the cellar, where a frightful spectacle awaited them. In rear of the fortifications, in which Athos had made a breach for his exit, and which were composed of fagots, planks, and empty casks, arranged according to all the rules of strategy, were numerous pools of oil and wine, in which the bones of the hams that had been eaten were lying. In one corner was a pile of broken bottles, and in another a huge cask of wine was just yielding up the last drops of its blood. Out of fifty large sausages that had been suspended to the beams of the roof, ten only were remaining. The image of devastation and death, as the ancient poet said, reigned there as upon a field of battle."

With characteristic generosity and insouciance, Athos forgives the host, and compensates him for the damage done to his property. The two guardsmen then sit down to drink, and D'Artagnan tells his friend of the misfortune he has had in the loss of his mistress.

"'Your misfortune makes me laugh,' said Athos, shrugging his shoulders. 'I wonder what you would say to a love story that I could tell you.'

"'Something that happened to yourself?'

"'Or to one of my friends; no matter.'

"'Tell it me.'

"'I would rather drink.'

"'You can do both.'

"'True,' said Athos, filling his glass; 'the two things go well together.'

"The mousquetaire paused, and seemed to be collecting his thoughts; and as he did so, D'Artagnan observed that he grew each moment paler. He had reached that stage of intoxication at which ordinary drinkers fall under the table and sleep. Athos, however, did not do that; he dreamed aloud without sleeping. There was something frightful in this somnambulism of drunkenness.

"'One of my friends,' he began — 'one of my friends, mind you, not myself,' interrupted he with a gloomy smile; 'a count of my province, that is to say of Berri, noble as a Dandolo or a Montmorency, fell in love when twenty-five years of age, with a young girl of seventeen, beautiful as painters have depicted Venus. Joined to the naïveté of her age, she possessed the soul and feeling of a poet; she could not be said to please — she intoxicated all who approached her. She lived in a little village with her brother, who was a priest. None knew who they were, nor whence they came; but she was so beautiful, and her brother so pious, that none thought of asking. It was rumoured and believed that they were of good family. My friend, who was lord of that country, might have seduced the young girl or taken her by force, as he chose; he was the master; who would have come to the assistance of two friendless strangers? Unfortunately he was an honest man, and he married her. The fool-the idiot!'

"'Why a fool, since he loved her?' asked D'Artagnan.

"'Patience,' said Athos. 'He conducted her to his castle, and made her the first lady of the province; and, to do her justice, she knew perfectly how to support her rank.'

"'Well?' said D'Artagnan.

"'Well! one day she was out hunting with her husband,' continued Athos, speaking in a low tone and very fast, 'she was overcome by the heat, and fell from her horse in a swoon; the count sprang to her assistance, and as her clothes seemed to prevent her breathing, he cut them open with his dagger, and her shoulder was uncovered. Guess what she had upon her shoulder, D'Artagnan?' said Athos with a strange wild laugh.

"'How can I tell?' said D'Artagnan.

"'A fleur-de-lis. She was branded!'

"And Athos emptied at a draught the cup that stood before him.

"'Horror!' exclaimed D'Artagnan. 'What do you tell me?'

"'The truth — the angel was a devil — the innocent young girl was a convict.'

"'And what did the count do?'

"'The count was a powerful nobleman; he had right of pit and halter upon his lands; he bared the shoulder of the countess, tied her hands behind her back, and hung her to a tree.'

"'Heavens! Athos! a murder!' cried D'Artagnan.

"'Yes, a murder, nothing more,' said Athos, pale as death. 'But there is no wine — we are drinking nothing.'

"And Athos seized the last bottle by the neck, put it to his mouth, and emptied it as though it had been an ordinary glass."

This strange story, that could hardly have proceeded from any but a French imagination, is nevertheless very effective, far more so in Monsieur Dumas' terse and pointed diction than in our imperfect translation. The dame with the fleur-de-lis on her shoulder is not dead, but on the contrary married again, and proves to be no other than an emissary of the Cardinal, a certain Lady de Winter, or Milady, as M. Dumas persists in calling her. She it was who cut the diamonds off Buckingham's dress, and informed the Cardinal of the same. Throughout the whole book she plays the part of a sort of Mephistopheles in petticoats, doing evil for evil's sake; and finally, when in prison in England, gains over a fanatical young officer named Felton, who is set to guard her, and working on him by the power of her charms and an artfully devised story, instigates him to the murder of Buckingham, who is at Portsmouth fitting out an armament for the relief of La Rochelle, then besieged by Richelieu. She escapes to France, but there falls into the hands of her deadly enemy, D'Artagnan, and of her first husband, Athos, otherwise Count de la Fère. Her punishment is one of the last and most striking scenes in the book, which concludes with the capture of La Rochelle, leaving D'Artagnan a lieutenant of mousquetaires, and, to all appearance, on the high-road to further preferment. Some account of his future fortune is promised us by Monsieur Dumas; and, however alarming a continuation to a book in eight volumes may sound, we cannot help wishing he may keep his promise. There is less occasion to be alarmed at the length of a six or eight volume book from his hands, than at that of a three volume one from those of many other writers; and moreover one must take into account the ingenuity of French publishers, who manage to have the type spread out over the largest possible amount of white paper. The system of putting little in a page, and diminishing that little by the interpolation of huge and apparently objectless blank spaces, has reached its height in Paris; and, although an imposition on the public, it perhaps renders a book lighter and pleasanter to read. Light reading and pleasant reading Monsieur Dumas' romance assuredly is; and we can wish our readers no better pastime, during the long evenings of this wintry season, than the perusal of the feats and fortunes of the Trois Mousquetaires.

MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN

Part XV

"Have I not in my time heard lions roar?
Have I not heard the sea, puft up with wind,
Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,
And Heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?
Have I not in the pitched battle heard
Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?"

    Shakspeare.
Valenciennes was now captured. The sagacity of my friend, the French engineer, had not been deceived. The explosion of the three great mines, an operation from its magnitude almost new to war, and in its effects irresistible, had thrown open the fortress. The garrison had done their work gallantly, and the result was a capitulation, hastened by the outcry of the famishing inhabitants. I hastened to the quarters of my regiment, was received with all cordiality, had the honour of an interview with the royal duke, who, at all times affable, was now in peculiar good-humour, and who led me into a long detail of such public opinions as might be gathered from my intercourse with the garrison. At the close of our interview he gave me a note, which was to be forwarded to the adjutant-general. I made my bow, and retired.

All in the camp was festivity. A great achievement had been accomplished, and the barriers of France were broken down. But in the midst of national triumph, I felt a depression which rendered me wholly incapable of sharing it. The wounds of the spirit are not to be healed like those of the frame; and with the recollection of the noble creature whom I had lost, bitterness mingled in every sound, and sight, and exultation. My first request would have been for leave of absence, that I might follow her, if she were still in France, or in the world. But the bustle at headquarters told me that some movement was about to take place; and, under those circumstances, to ask for leave was impossible. Still I continued making every imaginable enquiry, dispatching letters, and seeing postmasters, to obtain intelligence of the route which Clotilde had taken. After tracing her for the first few leagues, all tidings were lost; and I had only to trust to that hope which was a part of my sanguine nature, and which was sustained by a kind of consciousness that a being so superior could not be flung away in the chances which visit the multitude.

While I was thus pondering and perplexed, I was summoned to attend one of the principal officers of his royal highness's staff. "We are sending despatches of some importance to London," said he, "and it is the wish of the commander-in-chief that you should take them. I have the pleasure to tell you, that he feels an interest in you from the opportunities which you have had of distinguishing yourself in the campaign, and that he has appointed you an extra aide-de-camp. Your service begins soon," added my informant with a smile, "for you must set off to-night. The despatch mentioning the capitulation of the fortress was, of course, sent off at once; but as the commission, in those cases, is given by routine, it is desirable to have some one in London capable of explaining the 'explanation,' or perhaps taking the place of the 'honourable,' or 'right honourable' personage who has been made the official bearer of the despatch. His royal highness is satisfied, from his conversation with you, that you will be perfectly fit for this purpose; and here is the despatch, with which you are to make all expedition to the Horse-Guards."

After giving my orders for the journey, I hastened to take leave of the man whom I most honoured and esteemed, my unfailing friend Guiscard. To my surprise, he received the intelligence of my appointment with scarcely a word of congratulation. Little as I myself was now excitable by any thing in the shape of human fortune, I was chagrined by his obstinate gravity. He observed it, and started from his seat. "Come," said he, "let us take a walk, and get out of the sight of mankind, if we can." He took my arm, and we strayed along the banks of the Scheldt, where, however, his purpose was unobtainable, for the whole breadth of the river was covered with the provision barges of the troops. The bargemen were enjoying the fine July evening in the national style — swilling the worst beer that ever punished the taste for that barbarian beverage, and filling the fresh breeze with the fumes of tobacco, worthy of the beer. Guiscard stopped to gaze at them.

"I envy those fellows," said he. "Not merely for their escaping all care, and being able to extract enjoyment out of their execrable drink and pipes, but from their being exempt from all contact with portfolios."