Part 8

"Yes, I am," added the king, taking a handful of gold from La Chesnaye's hand and placing it in d'Artagnan's. "Here," he said, "is a proof of my satisfaction."

At that time, the ideas of pride that are in fashion nowadays were not yet the mode. A gentleman received money from the king's hand to hand and was not in the least humiliated by it. So d'Artagnan put the forty pistoles into his pocket without any ceremony, and on the contrary thanked His Majesty greatly.

"There," said the king, looking at his clock, "there, and now that it is half-past eight, withdraw; for, as I told you, I am expecting someone at nine. Thank you for your devotion, gentlemen. I can count on it, can I not?"

"Oh, Sire!" cried the four companions with one voice, "we would let ourselves be cut to pieces for Your Majesty."

"Good, good; but stay whole: that is better, and you will be more useful to me. Tréville," added the king in a half-voice while the others were withdrawing, "since you have no place in the Musketeers and since, moreover, to enter that corps we have decided that one must serve a novitiate, place this young man in the company of the Guards of Monsieur des Essarts, your brother-in-law. Ah! Pardieu! Tréville, I rejoice at the grimace the Cardinal will make: he will be furious, but that is all the same to me; I am in my right."

And the king waved his hand to Tréville, who went out and rejoined his Musketeers, whom he found sharing the forty pistoles with d'Artagnan.

And the Cardinal, as His Majesty had said, was indeed furious, so furious that for eight days he abandoned the king's game, which did not prevent the king from making the most charming face in the world to him, and every time he met him from asking him in his most caressing voice:

"Well, Monsieur le Cardinal, how goes it with that poor Bernajoux and that poor Jussac, who are yours?"

CHAPTER VII. THE INTERIOR OF THE MUSKETEERS

When d'Artagnan was outside the Louvre, and he consulted his friends on the use he should make of his share of the forty pistoles, Athos advised him to order a good meal at the Pomme de Pin, Porthos to take a lackey, and Aramis to provide himself with a suitable mistress.

The meal was carried out that same day, and the lackey served at table. The meal had been ordered by Athos, and the lackey supplied by Porthos. He was a Picard whom the glorious musketeer had hired that very day and on this occasion on the Pont de la Tournelle, while he was making circles by spitting into the water.

Porthos had claimed that this occupation was proof of a reflective and contemplative organization, and he had taken him away without any other recommendation. The grand bearing of this gentleman, in whose service he believed himself engaged, had seduced Planchet—such was the Picard's name; there was a slight disappointment in him when he saw that the place was already taken by a colleague named Mousqueton, and when Porthos had signified to him that his household, however great, did not require two servants, and that he must enter the service of d'Artagnan. However, when he attended the dinner his master gave and saw him pull a handful of gold from his pocket in payment, he thought his fortune made and thanked Heaven for having fallen into the possession of such a Croesus; he persisted in this opinion until after the feast, from the leftovers of which he repaired long abstinences. But when making his master's bed that evening, Planchet's chimeras vanished. The bed was the only one in the apartment, which consisted of an antechamber and a bedroom. Planchet slept in the antechamber on a blanket taken from d'Artagnan's bed, and which d'Artagnan did without from then on.

Athos, for his part, had a valet whom he had trained to his service in a very particular fashion, and who was called Grimaud. He was very silent, this worthy lord. We speak of Athos, of course. For five or six years that he had lived in the deepest intimacy with his companions Porthos and Aramis, these latter remembered having seen him smile often, but they had never heard him laugh. His words were brief and expressive, always saying what they meant to say, nothing more: no embellishments, no embroidery, no arabesques. His conversation was a fact without any episode.

Although Athos was barely thirty years old and was of great beauty of body and mind, no one knew of any mistress. He never spoke of women. Only he did not prevent others from speaking of them in his presence, although it was easy to see that this kind of conversation, in which he only joined with bitter words and misanthropic observations, was perfectly disagreeable to him. His reserve, his wildness, and his muteness made him almost an old man; he had therefore, in order not to derogate from his habits, accustomed Grimaud to obey him by a simple gesture or a simple movement of the lips. He only spoke to him in supreme circumstances.

Sometimes Grimaud, who feared his master like fire, while having a great attachment to his person and a great veneration for his genius, believed he had perfectly understood what he desired, rushed to execute the received order, and did precisely the opposite. Then Athos shrugged his shoulders and, without getting angry, thrashed Grimaud. On those days, he spoke a little.

Porthos, as could be seen, had a character quite opposite to that of Athos: not only did he speak much, but he spoke loud; little did it matter to him, moreover, justice must be done him, whether he was listened to or not; he spoke for the pleasure of speaking and for the pleasure of hearing himself; he spoke of all things except sciences, alleging on this point the inveterate hatred he had borne since his childhood, he said, to scholars. He had less grand air than Athos, and the feeling of his inferiority in this respect had, in the beginning of their liaison, often made him unjust towards this gentleman, whom he had then striven to surpass by his splendid attire. But with his simple musketeer's cassock and merely by the way he threw back his head and advanced his foot, Athos instantly took the place due to him and relegated the ostentatious Porthos to the second rank. Porthos consoled himself by filling the antechamber of Monsieur de Tréville and the guardrooms of the Louvre with the noise of his good fortunes, of which Athos never spoke, and for the moment, after having passed from the nobility of the robe to the nobility of the sword, from the lawyer's wife to the baroness, nothing less was in question for Porthos than a foreign princess who wished him an enormous good.

An old proverb says: "Like master, like man." Let us pass then from Athos's valet to Porthos's valet, from Grimaud to Mousqueton.

Mousqueton was a Norman whose master had changed his peaceful name of Boniface into that infinitely more sonorous and bellicose one of Mousqueton. He had entered the service of Porthos on condition that he would be clothed and lodged only, but in a magnificent fashion; he demanded only two hours a day to devote to an industry that was to suffice to provide for his other needs. Porthos had accepted the bargain; the thing suited him marvelously. He had doublets cut for Mousqueton from his old clothes and his spare cloaks, and thanks to a very intelligent tailor who restored his garments to newness by turning them, and whose wife was suspected of wanting to bring Porthos down from his aristocratic habits, Mousqueton cut a very good figure in the train of his master.

As for Aramis, whose character we believe we have sufficiently set forth—a character which, moreover, like that of his companions, we can follow in its development—his lackey was called Bazin. Thanks to the hope his master had of one day entering holy orders, he was always dressed in black, as befits the servant of a churchman. He was a Berrichon of thirty-five to forty years, gentle, peaceful, plump, occupying his leisure hours left him by his master in reading pious works, making strictly for two a dinner of few dishes but excellent. Besides, mute, blind, deaf, and of a fidelity proof against all trials.

Now that we know, superficially at least, the masters and the valets, let us pass to the dwellings occupied by each of them.

Athos lived in the Rue Férou, a stone's throw from the Luxembourg; his apartment consisted of two small rooms, very neatly furnished, in a lodging house whose landlady, still young and truly still beautiful, made tender eyes at him in vain. Some fragments of a great past splendor shone here and there on the walls of this modest lodging: it was, for example, a sword, richly damascened, which in workmanship dated back to the time of Francis I, and whose hilt alone, encrusted with precious stones, could be worth two hundred pistoles, and which yet, in his moments of greatest distress, Athos had never consented to pawn or sell. This sword had long been the ambition of Porthos. Porthos would have given ten years of his life to possess this sword.

One day when he had a rendezvous with a duchess, he even tried to borrow it from Athos. Athos, without saying a word, emptied his pockets, gathered up all his jewels—purses, aiguillettes, and gold chains—he offered all to Porthos; but as for the sword, he told him, it was sealed to its place and should only leave it when its master himself left his lodging. Besides his sword, there was also a portrait representing a lord of the time of Henry III, dressed with the greatest elegance, and wearing the Order of the Holy Spirit, and this portrait had with Athos certain resemblances of line, certain family similarities, which indicated that this great lord, knight of the king's orders, was his ancestor.

Finally, a coffer of magnificent goldsmith's work, with the same arms as the sword and the portrait, made a centerpiece on the mantelpiece whose effect clashed frightfully with the rest of the furnishings. Athos always carried the key to this coffer on him. But one day he had opened it before Porthos, and Porthos had been able to assure himself that this coffer contained only letters and papers: love letters and family papers, no doubt.

Porthos lived in a very vast and very sumptuous-looking apartment, in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier. Every time he passed with some friend before his windows, at one of which Mousqueton always stood in full livery, Porthos raised his head and hand, and said: "That is my dwelling!" But no one ever found him at home, he never invited anyone to go up, and no one could form an idea of what real riches this sumptuous appearance contained.

As for Aramis, he lived in a small lodging consisting of a boudoir, a dining room, and a bedroom, which bedroom, situated like the rest of the apartment on the ground floor, opened onto a little garden, fresh, green, shady, and impenetrable to the eyes of the neighbors.

As for d'Artagnan, we know how he was lodged, and we have already made the acquaintance of his lackey, Master Planchet.

D'Artagnan, who was very curious by nature, as are people, moreover, who have the genius of intrigue, made every effort to find out exactly what Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were; for under these war names, each of the young men concealed his gentle name, Athos especially, who smelled of the great lord from a league away. He therefore addressed himself to Porthos for information about Athos and Aramis, and to Aramis to learn about Porthos.

Unfortunately, Porthos himself knew of the life of his silent comrade only what had transpired. It was said that he had had great misfortunes in his love affairs, and that a frightful betrayal had poisoned forever the life of this gallant man. What was this betrayal? No one knew.

As for Porthos, except his true name, which Monsieur de Tréville alone knew, as well as that of his two comrades, his life was easy to know. Vain and indiscreet, one saw through him as through crystal. The only thing that could have misled the investigator would have been that one believed all the good he said of himself.

As for Aramis, while seeming to have no secrets, he was a fellow all steeped in mysteries, answering little to the questions put to him about others, and eluding those put about himself. One day, d'Artagnan, after having long questioned him about Porthos and having learned the rumor that was current about the musketeer's good fortune with a princess, wanted also to know the truth about the amorous adventures of his interlocutor.

"And you, my dear companion," he said to him, "you who speak of the baronesses, countesses, and princesses of others?"

"Pardon," interrupted Aramis, "I spoke because Porthos speaks of them himself, because he has cried all these fine things in my presence. But believe me, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, if I had learned them from another source or if he had confided them to me, there would have been no confessor more discreet than I."

"I do not doubt that," replied d'Artagnan; "but finally, it seems to me that you yourself are quite familiar with coats of arms, witness the certain embroidered handkerchief to which I owe the honor of your acquaintance."

Aramis this time did not get angry, but he put on his most modest air and replied affectionately:

"My dear, do not forget that I wish to enter the Church, and that I flee all worldly occasions. That handkerchief you saw was not confided to me, but was forgotten at my place by one of my friends. I was obliged to pick it up so as not to compromise him and the lady he loves. As for myself, I have no mistress and do not wish to have one, following in this the very judicious example of Athos, who has no more than I."

"But, the devil! you are not an abbé, since you are a musketeer."

"Musketeer by interim, my dear, as the Cardinal says, musketeer against my will, but a churchman at heart, believe me. Athos and Porthos shoved me into this to keep me occupied: I had, at the moment of being ordained, a little difficulty with... But that does not interest you much, and I am taking up your precious time."

"Not at all, it interests me greatly," cried d'Artagnan, "and I have absolutely nothing to do at the moment."

"Yes, but I have my breviary to recite," replied Aramis, "then some verses to compose that Madame d'Aiguillon has asked me for; then I must go to the Rue Saint-Honoré to buy some rouge for Madame de Chevreuse. You see, my dear friend, that if nothing presses you, I am very busy myself."

And Aramis affectionately held out his hand to his companion, and took leave of him.

D'Artagnan could not, however much trouble he gave himself, learn any more about his three new friends. He therefore made up his mind to believe in the present all that was said of their past, hoping for more certain and more extensive revelations from the future. In the meantime, he considered Athos as an Achilles, Porthos as an Ajax, and Aramis as a Joseph.

Moreover, the life of the four young men was joyful: Athos played, and always unluckily. However, he never borrowed a sou from his friends, although his purse was constantly at their service, and when he had played on credit, he always had his creditor woken at six in the morning to pay him his debt of the previous day.

Porthos had fits of enthusiasm: on those days, if he won, he was seen to be insolent and splendid; if he lost, he disappeared completely for a few days, after which he reappeared with a pale face and a lengthened expression, but with money in his pockets.

As for Aramis, he never played. He was indeed the worst musketeer and the most miserable companion that could be seen... He always needed to work. Sometimes in the middle of a dinner, when everyone, in the rush of wine and the heat of conversation, thought that there were still two or three hours to remain at table, Aramis looked at his watch, rose with a gracious smile, and took leave of the company, to go, he said, consult a casuist with whom he had a rendezvous. Other times, he returned to his lodging to write a thesis, and asked his friends not to distract him.

Yet Athos smiled with that charming melancholy smile, so becoming to his noble face, and Porthos drank, swearing that Aramis would never be anything but a village curate.

Planchet, d'Artagnan's valet, bore his good fortune nobly; he received thirty sous a day, and for a month he came home as gay as a lark and affable towards his master. When the wind of adversity began to blow upon the household of the Rue des Fossoyeurs—that is to say, when the forty pistoles of King Louis XIII were eaten up or nearly so—he began complaints that Athos found nauseating, Porthos indecent, and Aramis ridiculous. Athos therefore advised d'Artagnan to dismiss the rascal, Porthos wanted him to be beaten first, and Aramis claimed that a master should only hear the compliments made about him.

"That is all very easy for you to say," replied d'Artagnan; "for you, Athos, who live mute with Grimaud, who forbid him to speak, and who consequently never have bad words with him; for you, Porthos, who lead a magnificent life and are a god to your valet Mousqueton; for you, finally, Aramis, who, always distracted by your theological studies, inspire a profound respect in your servant Bazin, a gentle and religious man; but I, who am without substance and without resources, who am not a musketeer nor even a guardsman, what shall I do to inspire affection, terror, or respect in Planchet?"

"The thing is serious," replied the three friends, "it is a domestic affair; with valets it is as with women, they must be put at once on the footing on which one wishes them to remain. Reflect, then."

D'Artagnan reflected and resolved to thrash Planchet provisionally, which was carried out with the conscientiousness that d'Artagnan put into all things; then, after having well beaten him, he forbade him to leave his service without his permission. "For," he added, "the future cannot fail me; I inevitably await better times. Your fortune is therefore made if you stay near me, and I am too good a master to make you miss your fortune by granting you the discharge you ask of me."

This manner of acting gave great respect to the Musketeers for d'Artagnan's policy. Planchet was likewise seized with admiration and spoke no more of going away.

The life of the four young men had become common; d'Artagnan, who had no habits, since he arrived from his province and fell into the midst of a world entirely new to him, immediately adopted the habits of his friends.

They rose about eight o'clock in winter, about six in summer, and went to receive the password and the air of affairs at Monsieur de Tréville's. D'Artagnan, although he was not a musketeer, performed the service with a touching punctuality: he was always on guard, because he always kept company with whichever of his three friends was mounting his guard. He was known at the Musketeers' barracks, and everyone considered him a good comrade; Monsieur de Tréville, who had appreciated him at first sight and who bore him a true affection, never ceased recommending him to the king.

For their part, the three Musketeers greatly loved their young comrade. The friendship that united these four men, and the need to see each other three or four times a day, whether for duel, for business, or for pleasure, made them constantly run after each other like shadows; and one always met the inseparable ones seeking each other from the Luxembourg to the Place Saint-Sulpice, or from the Rue du Vieux-Colombier to the Luxembourg.

In the meantime, Monsieur de Tréville's promises were taking their course. One fine day, the king commanded Monsieur le Chevalier des Essarts to take d'Artagnan as a cadet into his company of Guards. D'Artagnan put on this uniform with a sigh, which he would have liked, at the cost of ten years of his life, to trade for the musketeer's cassock. But Monsieur de Tréville promised him this favor after a novitiate of two years, a novitiate which could, moreover, be shortened if the occasion presented itself for d'Artagnan to render some service to the king or to perform some brilliant action. D'Artagnan withdrew on this promise and, from the next day, began his service.

Then it became the turn of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to mount guard with d'Artagnan when he was on guard. The company of Monsieur le Chevalier des Essarts thus took four men instead of one, the day it took d'Artagnan.

CHAPTER VIII. A COURT INTRIGUE

Meanwhile, the forty pistoles of King Louis XIII, like all things in this world, after having had a beginning, had an end, and since this end our four companions had fallen into straits. First Athos had for some time supported the association from his own funds. Porthos had succeeded him, and, thanks to one of those disappearances to which they were accustomed, he had for nearly fifteen days more supplied the needs of everyone; finally came the turn of Aramis, who had sacrificed himself with good grace, and who had succeeded, he said, by selling his theology books, in procuring a few pistoles.

They then had recourse, as usual, to Monsieur de Tréville, who made some advances on their pay; but these advances could not carry three Musketeers who already had many arrears accounts, and a guardsman who had none yet.

Finally, when they saw they were going to be completely destitute, they gathered by a last effort eight or ten pistoles which Porthos gambled. Unfortunately, he was in a bad streak: he lost everything, plus twenty-five pistoles on credit.

Then the straits became distress; one saw the hungry men followed by their lackeys running along the quays and the guardrooms, picking up at the houses of their outside friends all the dinners they could find; for, according to Aramis's advice, one should in prosperity sow meals to right and left in order to reap some in adversity.

Athos was invited four times and each time took his friends with their lackeys. Porthos had six occasions and likewise made his comrades benefit from them; Aramis had eight. He was a man, as one could already perceive, who made little noise and did much work.

As for d'Artagnan, who still knew no one in the capital, he found only a chocolate breakfast at a priest from his province, and a dinner at a cornet of the Guards. He took his army to the priest's, where they devoured his two months' provision, and to the cornet's, who did wonders; but, as Planchet said, one only eats once, even when one eats much.

D'Artagnan thus found himself quite humiliated at having had only one meal and a half, for the breakfast at the priest's could only count as a half-meal, to offer to his companions in exchange for the feasts that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had procured. He believed himself a burden to the society, forgetting in his youthful good faith that he had fed that society for a month, and his preoccupied mind set to work actively. He reflected that this coalition of four young, brave, enterprising, and active men should have another aim than unhinged walks, fencing lessons, and more or less witty jokes.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”