Part 42
And the four friends, seconded by Grimaud, began pushing with the butts of their muskets against an enormous section of wall, which leaned as if pushed by the wind, and, breaking away from its base, fell with a horrible crash into the ditch. Then a great cry was heard, a cloud of dust rose toward the sky, and it was all over.
“Could we have crushed them from first to last?” asked Athos.
“Upon my word, that seems to be the case,” said d’Artagnan.
“No,” said Porthos, “there are two or three of them limping away.”
Indeed, three or four of those wretches, covered with mud and blood, were fleeing down the sunken road and making for the town; that was all that remained of the little troop.
Athos looked at his watch.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “we have been here an hour, and now the bet is won; but we must be good players. Besides, d’Artagnan has not yet told us his idea.”
And the musketeer, with his usual composure, went and sat down before the remains of the meal.
“My idea?” said d’Artagnan.
“Yes, you said you had an idea,” replied Athos.
“Ah! I remember,” resumed d’Artagnan. “I go to England a second time, I find Monsieur de Buckingham, and I warn him of the plot against his life.”
“You will not do that, d’Artagnan,” said Athos coldly.
“And why not? Have I not done it already?”
“Yes, but at that time we were not at war; at that time Monsieur de Buckingham was an ally and not an enemy. What you want to do now would be called treason.”
D’Artagnan understood the force of this reasoning and fell silent.
“But,” said Porthos, “it seems to me that I have an idea in my turn.”
“Silence for Monsieur Porthos’s idea!” said Aramis.
“I ask Monsieur de Tréville for leave on some pretext you will find—I’m not good at pretexts. Milady does not know me; I approach her without her fearing me, and when I find my beauty, I strangle her.”
“Well,” said Athos, “I am not far from adopting Porthos’s idea.”
“Fie!” said Aramis. “Kill a woman! No, look, I have the real idea.”
“Let’s hear your idea, Aramis!” asked Athos, who had great deference for the young musketeer.
“We must warn the queen.”
“Ah! upon my word, yes,” cried Porthos and d’Artagnan together. “I believe we are hitting on the means.”
“Warn the queen!” said Athos. “And how? Do we have connections at court? Can we send someone to Paris without being known in the camp? From here to Paris is a hundred and forty leagues; our letter will not reach Angers before we are in prison.”
“As for safely getting a letter to Her Majesty,” proposed Aramis, blushing, “I will take charge of that. I know in Tours a clever person…”
Aramis stopped, seeing Athos smile.
“Well, you do not adopt this means, Athos?” said d’Artagnan.
“I do not entirely reject it,” said Athos, “but I only wanted to point out to Aramis that he cannot leave the camp; that anyone else besides one of us is not safe; that two hours after the messenger sets out, all the Capuchins, all the alguazils, all the cardinal’s black bonnets will know your letter by heart, and you and your clever person will be arrested.”
“Not to mention,” objected Porthos, “that the queen will save Monsieur de Buckingham, but will not save us at all.”
“Gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “what Porthos objects is full of sense.”
“Ah! ah! what is happening in the town?” said Athos.
“They are beating the general alarm.”
The four friends listened, and the sound of the drum indeed reached them.
“You will see that they will send a whole regiment against us,” said Athos.
“You don’t mean to hold out against a whole regiment?” said Porthos.
“Why not?” said the musketeer. “I feel in the mood; and I would hold out against an army, if we had only taken the precaution of bringing a dozen extra bottles.”
“Upon my word, the drum is drawing nearer,” said d’Artagnan.
“Let it draw near,” said Athos. “It is a quarter of an hour’s journey from here to the town, and consequently from the town to here. That is more time than we need to settle our plan. If we leave here, we shall never find such a convenient spot again. And look, just so, gentlemen, here is the real idea that occurs to me.”
“Speak, then.”
“Allow me to give Grimaud a few necessary orders.”
Athos beckoned his servant to approach.
“Grimaud,” said Athos, pointing to the dead lying in the bastion, “you are to take these gentlemen, you are to set them up against the wall, put their hats on their heads and their muskets in their hands.”
“O great man!” cried d’Artagnan. “I understand you.”
“You understand?” said Porthos.
“And you, do you understand, Grimaud?” asked Aramis.
Grimaud signed yes.
“That is all that is needed,” said Athos. “Let us return to my idea.”
“I would still like to understand, though,” observed Porthos.
“It’s useless.”
“Yes, yes, Athos’s idea,” said d’Artagnan and Aramis together.
“This Milady, this woman, this creature, this demon, has a brother-in-law, as you told me, I believe, d’Artagnan.”
“Yes, I know him well, and I also believe he has no great sympathy for his sister-in-law.”
“That is no bad thing,” replied Athos, “and if he detested her, so much the better.”
“In that case we are well served.”
“However,” said Porthos, “I would like to understand what Grimaud is doing.”
“Silence, Porthos!” said Aramis.
“What is this brother-in-law’s name?”
“Lord de Winter.”
“Where is he now?”
“He returned to London at the first rumor of war.”
“Well, that is precisely the man we need,” said Athos. “It is he whom it suits us to warn. We will let him know that his sister-in-law is about to assassinate someone, and we will beg him not to lose sight of her. There is surely in London some establishment like the Madelonnettes or the Repentant Sisters; he will put his sister-in-law there, and we shall be at ease.”
“Yes,” said d’Artagnan, “until she gets out.”
“Ah! upon my word,” resumed Athos, “you ask too much, d’Artagnan. I have given you all I had, and I warn you that is the bottom of my bag.”
“I think that is the best thing,” said Aramis. “We warn both the queen and Lord de Winter.”
“Yes, but by whom shall we send the letter to Tours and the letter to London?”
“I answer for Bazin,” said Aramis.
“And I for Planchet,” continued d’Artagnan.
“Indeed,” said Porthos, “if we cannot leave the camp, our lackeys can.”
“Without doubt,” said Aramis. “And today we write the letters, give them money, and they leave.”
“Give them money?” resumed Athos. “Do you have money, then?”
The four friends looked at one another, and a cloud passed over their brows, which had brightened for a moment.
“Look out!” cried d’Artagnan. “I see black spots and red spots moving yonder. What were you saying about a regiment, Athos? It is a veritable army.”
“Upon my word, yes,” said Athos. “There they are. Do you see the sneaks coming without drums or trumpets? Ah! ah! Have you finished, Grimaud?”
Grimaud signed yes, and showed a dozen dead men he had placed in the most picturesque attitudes: some at present arms, others appearing to aim, others with sword in hand.
“Bravo!” resumed Athos. “That does credit to your imagination.”
“All the same,” said Porthos, “I should still like to understand.”
“Let us decamp first,” interrupted d’Artagnan. “You will understand afterward.”
“One moment, gentlemen, one moment! Let us give Grimaud time to clear the table.”
“Ah!” said Aramis, “here are the black spots and red spots growing very visible, and I am of d’Artagnan’s opinion; I think we have no time to lose to regain our camp.”
“Upon my word,” said Athos, “I have nothing against retreat: we bet for an hour, we have stayed an hour and a half; there is nothing to say. Let us go, gentlemen, let us go.”
Grimaud had already gone ahead with the basket and the remains.
The four friends followed him and took about ten paces.
“Hey!” cried Athos. “What the devil are we doing, gentlemen?”
“Have you forgotten something?” asked Aramis.
“And the flag, damn it! We must not leave a flag in the enemy’s hands, even if it is only a napkin.”
And Athos rushed into the bastion, climbed onto the platform, and snatched up the flag. But as the Rochellais had come within musket range, they fired a terrible volley at this man, who, as if for pleasure, went to expose himself to their shots.
But one would have said Athos had a charm about him; the bullets whistled all around him, not one touched him.
Athos waved his banner, turning his back on the men of the town and saluting those of the camp. Great cries resounded from both sides—cries of anger on one side, cries of enthusiasm on the other.
A second volley followed the first, and three balls, piercing it, truly made the napkin a flag. The clamors of the whole camp were heard crying:
“Come down! Come down!”
Athos came down; his comrades, who awaited him anxiously, saw him appear with joy.
“Come, Athos, come,” said d’Artagnan, “let us stretch our legs, stretch them; now that we have found everything except money, it would be stupid to be killed.”
But Athos continued to walk majestically, whatever observation his companions might make to him; they, seeing all observation useless, regulated their pace by his.
Grimaud and his basket had gone ahead and were both out of range.
An instant later they heard the sound of a furious fusillade.
“What is that?” asked Porthos. “What are they firing at? I don’t hear the bullets whistling, and I see no one.”
“They are firing at our dead,” replied Athos.
“But our dead will not answer.”
“Exactly; then they will think it is an ambush, they will deliberate; they will send a parley, and when they discover the joke, we will be out of range of the bullets. That is why it is useless to catch pleurisy by hurrying.”
“Oh! I understand,” cried Porthos, amazed.
“That’s lucky!” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders.
On their side, the French, seeing the four friends returning at a walk, raised cries of enthusiasm.
Finally a new musket fire was heard, and this time the bullets flattened themselves on the stones around the four friends and whistled lugubriously in their ears. The Rochellais had finally taken possession of the bastion.
“Here are very clumsy people,” said Athos. “How many did we kill? Twelve?”
“Or fifteen.”
“How many did we crush?”
“Eight or ten.”
“And in exchange for all that, not a scratch? Ah! yes! What is that on your hand, d’Artagnan? Blood, it seems to me?”
“It’s nothing,” said d’Artagnan.
“A stray bullet?”
“Not even that.”
“What then?”
We have said that Athos loved d’Artagnan as his own child, and this somber and inflexible character sometimes had fatherly solicitude for the young man.
“A scratch,” resumed d’Artagnan. “My fingers were caught between two stones—the stone of the wall and that of my ring; then the skin was broken.”
“That’s what comes of having diamonds, my master,” said Athos disdainfully.
“Ah, well!” cried Porthos, “there is indeed a diamond, and why the devil, since there is a diamond, do we complain of having no money?”
“Listen, that’s true!” said Aramis.
“Good, Porthos; this time that is an idea.”
“Without doubt,” said Porthos, swelling at Athos’s compliment, “since there is a diamond, let us sell it.”
“But,” said d’Artagnan, “it is the queen’s diamond.”
“All the more reason,” resumed Athos. “The queen saving Monsieur de Buckingham, her lover, nothing is more just; the queen saving us, her friends, nothing is more moral: let us sell the diamond. What does Monsieur l’Abbé think? I don’t ask Porthos’s opinion; it is given.”
“I think,” said Aramis, blushing, “that his ring not coming from a mistress, and consequently not being a love token, d’Artagnan may sell it.”
“My dear, you speak like theology in person. So your opinion is—”
“To sell the diamond,” replied Aramis.
“Well,” said d’Artagnan gaily, “let us sell the diamond and say no more about it.”
The fusillade continued, but the friends were out of range, and the Rochellais fired only for the sake of their consciences.
“Upon my word,” said Athos, “it was time for that idea to come to Porthos. Here we are at camp. So, gentlemen, not another word on this affair. We are observed, people are coming to meet us, we shall be carried in triumph.”
Indeed, as we have said, the whole camp was in commotion. More than two thousand people had witnessed, as at a spectacle, the happy bravado of the four friends—a bravado whose real motive was far from being suspected. Nothing was heard but cries of: “Long live the Guards! Long live the Musketeers!” Monsieur de Busigny was the first to come and shake Athos’s hand and acknowledge that the bet was lost. The dragoon and the Swiss had followed him; all the comrades had followed the dragoon and the Swiss. There were congratulations, handshakes, endless embraces, inextinguishable laughter at the expense of the Rochellais; finally, such a great tumult that Monsieur the Cardinal thought it was a riot and sent La Houdinière, his captain of the guards, to find out what was happening.
The matter was told to the messenger with all the effusion of enthusiasm.
“Well?” asked the cardinal, seeing La Houdinière.
“Well, Monseigneur,” said he, “it is three musketeers and one guard who made a bet with Monsieur de Busigny to go and breakfast in the bastion Saint-Gervais, and while breakfasting, they held out for two hours against the enemy, and killed I don’t know how many Rochellais.”
“Did you inquire the names of these three musketeers?”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“What are they called?”
“They are Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.”
“Always my three brave fellows!” murmured the cardinal. “And the guard?”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Always my young scamp! Decidedly, these four men must be mine.”
That very evening, the cardinal spoke to Monsieur de Tréville about the exploit of the morning, which was the talk of the whole camp. Monsieur de Tréville, who had the story of the adventure from the very mouths of those who were its heroes, told it in all its details to His Eminence, without forgetting the episode of the napkin.
“Very well, Monsieur de Tréville,” said the cardinal, “have that napkin brought to me, I pray. I will have three golden fleurs-de-lis embroidered on it, and I will give it as a guidon to your company.”
“Monseigneur,” said Monsieur de Tréville, “that would be unjust to the guards: Monsieur d’Artagnan is not mine, but Monsieur des Essarts’.”
“Well, take him,” said the cardinal. “It is not right that, since these four brave soldiers love each other so much, they should not serve in the same company.”
That very evening, Monsieur de Tréville announced this good news to the three musketeers and to d’Artagnan, inviting all four to breakfast the next day.
D’Artagnan could not contain himself for joy. It is known that the dream of his whole life had been to be a musketeer.
The three friends were very joyful.
“Upon my word!” said d’Artagnan to Athos, “you had a triumphant idea, and, as you said, we have gained glory by it, and we have been able to engage in a conversation of the highest importance.”
“Which we can now resume without anyone suspecting us; for, with God’s help, we shall henceforth pass for cardinalists.”
That same evening, d’Artagnan went to pay his respects to Monsieur des Essarts and inform him of the promotion he had obtained.
Monsieur des Essarts, who liked d’Artagnan very much, then offered him his services; this change of corps would entail expenses for equipment.
D’Artagnan refused; but, finding the occasion good, he begged him to have the diamond valued, which he handed over to him, and of which he wished to turn into money.
The next day at eight o’clock in the morning, Monsieur des Essarts’ valet came to d’Artagnan and handed him a bag of gold containing seven thousand livres.
That was the price of the queen’s diamond.
CHAPTER XLVIII. A FAMILY AFFAIR
Athos had found the word: a family affair. A family affair was not subject to the cardinal’s investigation; a family affair concerned no one; one could occupy oneself before the whole world with a family affair.
Thus Athos had found the word: family affair.
Aramis had found the idea: the lackeys.
Porthos had found the means: the diamond.
D’Artagnan alone had found nothing, he usually the most inventive of the four; but it must also be said that the mere name of Milady paralyzed him.
Ah! yes, we are mistaken: he had found a buyer for the diamond.
The breakfast at Monsieur de Tréville’s was of a charming gaiety. D’Artagnan already had his uniform; as he was about the same height as Aramis, and Aramis, amply paid, as we remember, by the bookseller who had bought his poem, had had everything made in duplicate, he had ceded to his friend a complete outfit.
D’Artagnan would have been at the height of his wishes had he not seen Milady looming like a dark cloud on the horizon.
After breakfast, it was agreed that they would meet that evening at Athos’s lodging, and that there they would conclude the affair.
D’Artagnan spent the day showing his musketeer uniform in all the streets of the camp.
In the evening, at the appointed hour, the four friends met. Only three things remained to be decided:
What to write to Milady’s brother;
What to write to the clever person in Tours;
And which lackeys would carry the letters.
Each offered his own: Athos spoke of Grimaud’s discretion, who only spoke when his master unstitched his mouth; Porthos vaunted Mousqueton’s strength, who was of a size to thrash four men of ordinary build; Aramis, trusting in Bazin’s adroitness, made a pompous eulogy of his candidate; finally, d’Artagnan had entire faith in Planchet’s bravery, and recalled how he had conducted himself in the thorny affair of Boulogne.
These four virtues long disputed the prize and gave rise to magnificent speeches, which we will not report here, for fear they might be too lengthy.
“Unfortunately,” said Athos, “the one we send would need to possess all four qualities united in himself alone.”
“But where find such a lackey?”
“Unfindable!” said Athos. “I know it well; so take Grimaud.”
“Take Mousqueton.”
“Take Bazin.”
“Take Planchet; Planchet is brave and clever—that is already two qualities out of four.”
“Gentlemen,” said Aramis, “the main point is not to know which of our four lackeys is the most discreet, the strongest, the most adroit, or the bravest; the main point is to know which loves money the most.”
“What Aramis says is full of sense,” resumed Athos. “We must speculate on people’s defects, not on their virtues. Monsieur l’Abbé, you are a great moralist!”
“Without doubt,” replied Aramis, “for not only do we need to be well served to succeed, but also not to fail; for in case of failure, it involves our heads, not for the lackeys…”
“Lower, Aramis!” said Athos.
“That’s right. Not for the lackeys,” resumed Aramis, “but for the master, and even for the masters! Are our servants devoted enough to risk their lives for us? No.”
“Upon my word,” said d’Artagnan, “I would almost answer for Planchet, myself.”
“Well, my dear friend, add to his natural devotion a good sum that gives him some ease, and then, instead of answering for him once, answer for him twice.”
“Eh! Good God! You will be deceived all the same,” said Athos, who was optimistic when it came to things and pessimistic when it came to men. “They will promise everything to get money, and on the way fear will prevent them from acting. Once caught, they will be squeezed; squeezed, they will confess. What the devil! We are not children. To go to England” (Athos lowered his voice), “we must cross all of France, strewn with spies and creatures of the cardinal; we must have a pass to embark; we must know English to ask our way in London. Look, I see the thing as very difficult.”
“But not at all,” said d’Artagnan, who was very keen on having the thing accomplished. “I see it as easy, on the contrary. It goes without saying, by Jove! that if one writes to Lord de Winter things above the houses, horrors of the cardinal…”
“Lower!” said Athos.
“Intrigues and state secrets,” continued d’Artagnan, conforming to the recommendation, “it goes without saying that we will all be broken on the wheel alive. But for God’s sake, do not forget, as you yourself said, Athos, that we are writing to him on a family affair; that we are writing to him with this sole purpose: that he put Milady, upon her arrival in London, out of a state to harm us. I will therefore write him a letter more or less in these terms:
“Let’s see,” said Aramis, assuming in advance a critical face.
“Sir and dear friend…”
“Ah, yes; dear friend, to an Englishman,” interrupted Athos. “A good beginning! Bravo, d’Artagnan! Merely with that word you will be quartered, instead of being broken alive.”
“Well, so be it; I will say then, Sir, simply.”
“You may even say, My Lord,” resumed Athos, who was very strict about proprieties.
“‘My Lord, do you remember the little goat enclosure in the Luxembourg?’”
“Good! The Luxembourg now! One would think it’s an allusion to the queen mother! That is ingenious,” said Athos.
“Well, we will put quite simply: ‘My Lord, do you remember a certain little enclosure where your life was saved?’”
“My dear d’Artagnan,” said Athos, “you will never be anything but a very bad writer. ‘Where your life was saved!’ Fie! That is not worthy. One does not recall such services to a gentleman. A favor reproached is an offense done.”
“Ah! my dear,” said d’Artagnan, “you are insufferable, and if I must write under your censorship, upon my word, I renounce it.”
“And you do well. Handle the musket and the sword, my dear; you acquit yourself handsomely in both exercises; but pass the pen to Monsieur l’Abbé; that concerns him.”
“Ah! yes, indeed,” said Porthos, “pass the pen to Aramis, who writes theses in Latin.”
“Well, so be it,” said d’Artagnan. “Write this note for us, Aramis; but, by our Holy Father the Pope, be concise, for I will scrutinize you in turn, I warn you.”
“I ask nothing better,” said Aramis, with that naive confidence every poet has in himself. “But let me be put in the picture. I have heard told, here and there, that this sister-in-law was a hussy; I have even acquired proof of it by listening to her conversation with the cardinal.”
“Lower, damn it!” said Athos.
“Stories of the world, in your language.”