“A thousand thanks, Monsieur,” replied Madame Bonacieux, “but as you aren’t brave enough to be of any use to me whatsoever, I’d just as soon return to the Louvre alone.”
“As you please, Madame Bonacieux,” replied the former mercer. “Will I see you again soon?”
“Next week, probably. Hopefully, my work will leave me a little free time, and I’ll take advantage of it to come and put things in order here, as they appear rather disarranged.”
“Very well, I’ll expect you. Do you need anything more from me?”
“No, nothing at all, dear.”
“See you soon, then?”
“See you soon!”
Bonacieux kissed his wife’s hand and quickly left.
“So much for that!” said Madame Bonacieux, once her husband had shut the street door and she found herself alone. “The only thing that imbecile lacked was to be a Cardinalist! And I’ve answered for him to the queen, I’ve promised my poor mistress . . . dear God! She’ll take me for one of those lying wretches who swarm about the palace, and are set to spy upon her. Ah, Monsieur Bonacieux! I never loved you very much, but now, I positively hate you! And, upon my word, you’ll pay for this!”
As she said these words, a rap on the ceiling made her look up. A voice that appeared to come through the plaster said, “Dear Madame Bonacieux! Open the little door on the staircase for me and let me come down to you.”
XVIII
The Lover and the Husband
“Ah, Madame,” said d’Artagnan, entering by the door the young woman had opened for him. “If you don’t mind my saying so, that’s a sad husband you have there.”
“You overheard our conversation?” asked Madame Bonacieux, with a mixture of unease and eagerness.
“I heard it all.”
“Oh, my God! But how could you do that?”
“By a little method I have, the same way I overheard the more animated conversation you had with the cardinal’s bailiffs.”
“And what did you gather from what you heard us say?”
“A thousand things! First of which, I’m happy to say, is that your husband is a simpleton and a fool. Second, that you’re in trouble, which suits me perfectly, as it gives me the chance to place myself at your service—and God knows I’m ready to jump into a fire for you! Finally, that the queen needs a brave, intelligent, and devoted man to travel to London for her. I have at least two of those three qualities—and here I am!”
Madame Bonacieux’s heart leaped with joy, and a secret hope shone from her eyes. “And what guarantee can you give me if I agree to confide this mission to you?” she asked.
“My love for you. Come, speak: command me! What’s to be done?”
“Mon Dieu,” murmured the young woman. “Must I confide such a secret to you, Monsieur? You’re practically a child!”
“Do you want someone to vouch for me?”
“Yes, that would be very reassuring.”
“Do you know Athos?”
“No.”
“Porthos?”
“No.”
“Aramis?”
“No. Who are these gentlemen?”
“They’re King’s Musketeers. Do you know Monsieur de Tréville, their captain?”
“Oh! Yes, I know him—not personally, but I’ve heard the queen speak of him more than once as a brave and loyal gentleman.”
“You’re not afraid he’d betray you to the cardinal, then?”
“Certainly not.”
“All right, then reveal your secret to him, no matter how important, precious, or terrible it is, and ask him whether you can trust it to me.”
“But this secret doesn’t belong to me—I can’t reveal it that way.”
“You were going to tell it to Monsieur Bonacieux,” said d’Artagnan, piqued.
“Yes, the same way one confides a letter to a hollow tree, a pigeon’s leg, or a dog’s collar.”
“But you can clearly see that I love you.”
“So you say.”
“I’m an honorable man!”
“I believe it.”
“I’m brave!”
“Oh! I’m sure of that.”
“Then put me to the test.”
Madame Bonacieux looked searchingly at the young man, hesitating on the brink. His eyes were so ardent, the enthusiasm in his voice was so persuasive, that she felt drawn to trust him. Besides, she was in one of those situations where one must risk everything on one throw of the dice. The queen could just as easily be ruined by too much caution as by too much trust. In the end, it was her own feelings for her young protector that impelled her to speak.
“Listen,” she said, “I give in. I’ll accept your assurances. But I swear, before God who hears us, that if you betray me, and I escape my enemies, I’ll kill myself and accuse you of my death.”
D’Artagnan was impressed. “As for me, Madame,” he said, “I swear before God that if I’m taken while trying to accomplish your mission, I’ll die before I’ll do or say anything that would compromise anyone.”
Then the young woman confided to him the terrible secret, some of which he’d already stumbled across by chance, that night in front of La Samaritaine. This was their mutual declaration of love.
D’Artagnan was radiant with joy and pride. The possession of this secret, and the love of this woman, made him a giant.
“I go,” he said. “I’ll go this minute!”
“You’ll go?” said Madame Bonacieux. “But what about your regiment, and your captain?”
“Upon my soul, you’ve made me forget all that, dear Constance! You’re right—I’ll have to ask for leave.”
“Yet another obstacle,” Madame Bonacieux murmured sadly.
“Don’t worry about that,” said d’Artagnan, after a moment of reflection. “I’ll manage it.”
“But how?”
“I’ll go this very evening to Monsieur de Tréville and ask him to request my leave as a favor from his brother-in-law, Monsieur des Essarts.”
“Good! But there’s still something else.” Madame Bonacieux hesitated.
“What is it, chérie?” asked d’Artagnan.
“You . . . have no money, perhaps?”
“No ‘perhaps’ about it,” said d’Artagnan, smiling.
“Well, then.” Madame Bonacieux opened an armoire and pulled out the bag her husband had caressed so lovingly half an hour before, and said, “Take this purse.”
“The cardinal’s money!” d’Artagnan laughed. Thanks to his hole in the floor, he’d heard every word of the conversation between the mercer and his wife.
“The cardinal’s money,” said Madame Bonacieux. “It looks like a respectable sum.”
“By God!” said d’Artagnan. “It’ll be twice as funny if we save the queen with His Eminence’s money!”
“I like a man with a sense of humor,” said Madame Bonacieux, smiling, “and believe me, the queen won’t be ungrateful.”
“I’m already well paid!” cried d’Artagnan. “I love you, and you allow me to do what you ask. That’s already more happiness than I ever dared hope for.”
Madame Bonacieux started. “Hush!”
“Why?”
“Someone’s talking in the street.”
“It’s the voice . . .”
“Of my husband! I thought I recognized it!”
D’Artagnan ran to the door and threw the bolt. “Don’t let him in until I’ve left,” he said. “When I’m gone, open the door for him.”
“But I should leave too. How am I supposed to explain the disappearance of his money?”
“You’re right—you have to go.”
“But how? He’ll see us if we go out.”
“Then you must come up to my room.”
“Oh!” cried Madame Bonacieux. “You say that in a tone that frightens me!” Tears of confusion sprang to her eyes.
D’Artagnan was troubled, and knelt at her feet. “In my rooms,” he said, “you’ll be as safe as in a church, I
give you my word as a gentleman.”
“Then let’s go,” she said. “I put my trust in you, my friend.”
D’Artagnan carefully drew back the bolt of the inner door, and then, as light as shadows, they glided through the doorway and into the passage. They climbed quietly up the stairs and entered d’Artagnan’s apartment.
Once in his rooms, the young man barricaded the door for greater security. They both then went to the window. Through the slats of the shutter they could see Monsieur Bonacieux, who was talking with a man in a cloak.
At the sight of the man in the cloak, d’Artagnan started, half drew his sword, and sprang toward the door.
It was his man of Meung.
“What are you doing?” cried Madame Bonacieux. “You’ll ruin us!”
“But I’ve sworn to kill that man!” said d’Artagnan.
“Your life is committed to another! In the name of the queen, I forbid you to throw yourself into any danger unrelated to your mission!”
“And what about in your name? Don’t you command anything for yourself?”
“For myself? In my own name, then, I beg you!” she said, her voice strained by emotion. “But listen! It sounds like they’re talking about me.”
D’Artagnan pressed his ear to the window.
Monsieur Bonacieux had unlocked his door and, seeing the apartment empty, had returned to the man in the cloak, whom he’d left in the doorway.
“She’s gone,” he said. “She must have returned to the Louvre.”
“You’re sure she had no idea of your intentions when you left?” said the stranger.
“Oh, no,” Bonacieux replied smugly. “She’s too shallow a woman for that.”
“Is that guard cadet at home?”
“I don’t think so. Look: his shutters are closed, and you can’t see any light through the blinds.”
“Quite so—but let’s make sure.”
“How?”
“By knocking on his door.”
“I’ll ask his lackey.”
“Go.”
Bonacieux reentered his house, passed through the same inner door as the two fugitives, climbed the stairs and knocked on d’Artagnan’s door.
No one answered. Porthos, to cut a grand figure, had borrowed Planchet for the evening. When Bonacieux rapped on the door, the two young people within felt their hearts leap inside them. But d’Artagnan was careful to maintain complete silence.
“Nobody’s home,” called Bonacieux.
“Never mind. Come back down to your apartment; it’s safer than talking in the doorway.”
“Oh, my God!” murmured Madame Bonacieux. “We’ll hear nothing more.”
“On the contrary,” whispered d’Artagnan, “we’ll hear all the better.”
D’Artagnan raised the three or four tiles that made his chamber into a listening post, spread a carpet on the floor, knelt over the opening, and gestured to Madame Bonacieux to do the same.
“You’re sure nobody’s there?” said the stranger, in the apartment below.
“I’ll answer for it,” said Bonacieux.
“And you think your wife . . . ?”
“Has returned to the Louvre.”
“Without speaking to anyone but you?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“That’s an important point—do you understand that?”
“So, the news I brought you is valuable?”
“Very, my dear Bonacieux. I won’t try to hide that from you.”
“Do you think the cardinal will be pleased with me?”
“No doubt about it.”
“The Great Cardinal!”
“Are you certain your wife mentioned no names in her conversation with you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She didn’t mention Madame de Chevreuse, or Monsieur de Buckingham, or Madame du Vernet?”
“No, she only told me she wanted to send me to London to serve the interests of an illustrious person.”
“The traitor!” murmured Madame Bonacieux.
“Hush!” whispered d’Artagnan, taking her hand, which she unconsciously allowed him to keep.
“No matter,” continued the man in the cloak, “though you were a fool not to have pretended to accept the mission. You’d have that letter; the State, which is threatened, would be saved; and you . . .”
“And me?”
“You? The cardinal would have presented you with the letters patent that would elevate you to the nobility.”
“Did . . . did he say that?”
“Yes, I happen to know he was planning to surprise you with that.”
“Don’t give up on me yet!” replied Bonacieux. “My wife adores me! There’s still time.”
“The dolt!” murmured Madame Bonacieux.
“Quiet,” said d’Artagnan, pressing her hand with his.
“How is there still time?” asked the man in the cloak.
“I’ll run to the Louvre and ask for Madame Bonacieux. I’ll say that I’ve reconsidered, accept the mission, and obtain the letter. Then I’ll go straight to the cardinal’s hôtel.”
“Well, get moving! I’ll return shortly to find out how it went.”
The stranger left.
“That swine!” said Madame Bonacieux, speaking less than tenderly of her husband.
“Silence!” said d’Artagnan, squeezing her hand more tightly than ever.
They were interrupted by a terrible howl. Her husband had discovered the disappearance of his purse and was crying thief.
“Oh, my God!” cried Madame Bonacieux. “He’ll rouse the whole neighborhood.”
Bonacieux yelled for several minutes. But such cries were rather frequent in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, and attracted little notice—and besides, the house of the mercer had acquired a rather bad reputation of late. When no one came, Bonacieux ran out into the street, still shouting, and his voice could be heard trailing off in the direction of the Rue du Bac.64
“Now that he’s gone, it’s your turn to depart,” said Madame Bonacieux. “Be brave, but above all be careful, and remember what you owe to the queen.”
“To her, and to you!” cried d’Artagnan. “Rest assured, sweet Constance, I’ll return worthy of her gratitude. But will I also return worthy of your love?”
The young woman replied only by the blush that rose to her cheeks.
D’Artagnan departed a few moments later, enveloped like the stranger in a great cloak, which barely covered the scabbard of his long sword. Madame Bonacieux followed him with her eyes, with that lingering look a woman sends after the man she loves. But once he’d turned the corner, she fell to her knees, clasped her hands, and cried, “Dear God! Protect the queen—and protect me!”
XIX
Plan of Campaign
D’Artagnan went straight to the Hôtel de Tréville. It had occurred to him that in a few minutes the cardinal would be alerted by that damned stranger in the cloak, who appeared to be his agent. He thought, quite rightly, that he hadn’t a moment to lose.
The young man’s heart overflowed with joy. With this mission he had an opportunity to gain both money and glory—and, as an even greater incentive, to do a deed for the woman he adored. At one blow, he’d been given a chance to accomplish more than he would ever have dared pray for.
Monsieur de Tréville was in his salon, surrounded by his usual entourage of gentlemen. D’Artagnan, who was recognized as a regular visitor of the house, went straight to Tréville’s study and made it known that he wished to speak to the captain on a matter of some importance.
D’Artagnan waited no more than five minutes before Monsieur de Tréville entered. One glance at the joy radiating from the cadet’s face told the veteran captain that something new was up.
All the way there, d’Artagnan had wrestled with whether he ought to confide in Monsieur de Tréville or whether he should only ask him for a carte blanche for a secret mission. But Tréville had always been so good to him, and was so devoted to the king and the
queen—and hated the cardinal so cordially—that the young man decided to tell him everything.
“You asked for me, my young friend?” said Tréville.
“Yes, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, “and I hope you’ll pardon me for troubling you, once you know how important it is.”
“Speak, then; I’m listening.”
D’Artagnan lowered his voice. “It concerns nothing less than the honor, and maybe the life, of the queen.”
“What’s that you say?” Tréville glanced around to make sure they were alone, then fixed his gaze on d’Artagnan, questioning him with a look.
“Monsieur, chance has made me privy to a secret . . .”
“Which I hope you’ll keep, young man, as sacred as your life.”
“But which I must confide to you, Monsieur, for only you can help me in the mission I’ve received from Her Majesty.”
“Is this your secret?”
“No, Monsieur—it’s Her Majesty’s.”
“Are you authorized by Her Majesty to tell it to me?”
“No, Monsieur. On the contrary, I’ve been told not to reveal it.”
“So why are you about to betray it to me?”
“Because, as I said, without you I can do nothing—and I was afraid you might refuse me the favor I’ve come for if you didn’t know why I asked for it.”
“Keep your secret, young man, and tell me what you want.”
“I’d like you to ask Monsieur des Essarts to give me a leave of absence of fifteen days.”
“Starting when?”
“Tonight.”
“You’re leaving Paris?”
“I’m going on a mission.”
“Can you tell me where?”
“To London.”
“Does anyone have an interest in preventing you from arriving?”
“The cardinal, I believe, would give the world to stop me.”
“And you’re traveling alone?”
“I’m going alone.”
“In that case, you won’t get past Bondy, as sure as my name is Tréville.”
“How’s that?”
“You’ll be assassinated.”
“Then I shall die doing my duty!”
“Yes, I dare say. But your mission will be unfulfilled.”