D’Artagnan listened as if to his best friend. When Bonacieux had finished, he asked, “And Madame Bonacieux, do you know who abducted her? For I recall, it was due to that nasty business that I owe the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
“Ah!” said Monsieur Bonacieux. “They were careful not to tell me that, and my wife, on her part, has sworn by all that’s holy that she has no idea. But you,” continued Bonacieux, in a tone of perfect bonhomie, “what became of you for the last few days? I haven’t seen you, or any of your friends—and it’s not from the streets of Paris, I think, that you collected all the dust I saw Planchet brush from your boots yesterday.”
“You’re right, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux; my friends and I took a little trip.”
“Did you go far?”
“Lord, no! Only about forty leagues. We went to take Monsieur Athos to the waters of Forges, and my friends stayed there with him.”
“But you came back, didn’t you?” said Bonacieux, with a knowing smile. “A handsome fellow like you doesn’t take a long leave of absence from his mistress. We were impatiently awaited in Paris, weren’t we?”
“My faith!” the young man laughed. “I admit it! I can see there’s no hiding anything from you, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux! Yes, I was awaited, and impatiently, too!”
A shadow passed over Bonacieux’s brow, but so quickly that it escaped d’Artagnan’s notice. “And are we going to be repaid for all our devotion and hard work?” continued the mercer, with a slight edge to his voice, which d’Artagnan also missed.
“This very evening! It looks like you’re right about that, too!” d’Artagnan said, smiling.
“I just wondered if you were going to be coming back late,” said Bonacieux.
“Why?” asked d’Artagnan. “Are you planning to sit up for me, my dear host?”
“No, it’s just that since my arrest and the robbery from my house, I’m alarmed every time I hear a door open, especially at night. Dame, what would you have? I’m no man of the sword, like you!”
“Well, don’t be alarmed if I come home at one, two, or even three o’clock in the morning. In fact, I may not come home at all.”
This time, Bonacieux turned so pale that d’Artagnan couldn’t help but notice it. “What’s wrong?” he said.
“Nothing,” said Bonacieux, “nothing. It’s just that, since my recent troubles, I’ve been subject to bouts of weakness that come over me all at once. I felt a little faint, that’s all. Pay no attention— you’ve got your hands full being happy.”
“It does keep me busy!”
“Just wait till this evening, as you said.”
“And the evening will come, by God! But maybe you’re just as impatient for it as I am—maybe this evening Madame Bonacieux will visit the conjugal abode!”
“Madame Bonacieux is not free this evening,” her husband said grimly. “She is detained at the Louvre by her duties.”
“Too bad for you, my dear host! When I’m happy, I want everyone to be happy, but I guess that’s just not possible.”
And the young man went on his way, laughing at his little joke, which he thought only he could understand.
“Laugh while you can,” said Bonacieux ominously. But d’Artagnan was too far away to hear him, and even if he had, in his current state of mind he wouldn’t have paid any attention.
D’Artagnan made his way toward the hôtel of Monsieur de Tréville. His visit on the previous evening, he recalled, had been too brief to give the captain a proper explanation.
He found Monsieur de Tréville as cheerful as he’d ever seen him. The king and the queen had been charming to him at the ball, though the cardinal had been rather peevish and sullen. Shortly after the ballet, Tréville had retired under the pretext of feeling poorly. As to Their Majesties, they hadn’t returned to the Louvre until six in the morning.
“Now,” said Monsieur de Tréville, lowering his voice and glancing into the corners of his study to make sure they were alone, “let’s talk about you, my young friend—for it’s obvious that your fortunate return had something to do with the king’s pleasure, the queen’s triumph, and His Eminence’s humiliation. You’d better watch out for yourself.”
“What do I have to fear as long as I have the good luck to enjoy the favor of Their Majesties?” d’Artagnan said.
“Everything, believe me. The cardinal is not the kind of man to leave troubles unattended to until he’s settled accounts with the troublemaker, and the troublemaker in this case seems to me to be a certain young Gascon of my acquaintance.”
“Do you suppose the cardinal knows as much as you and realizes I’m the one who went to London?”
“London! The devil you say! Was it from London that you brought back that beautiful diamond that glitters on your finger? Take care, my dear d’Artagnan—it’s not a good thing to accept a present from an enemy. Isn’t there a Latin verse or two about that? Wait a moment . . .”
“Yes, I’m sure. There must be,” said d’Artagnan, who’d never been able to master the simplest rules of that language and had driven his tutor to despair.
“I’m certain of it,” said Monsieur de Tréville, who had a smattering of the classics. “Monsieur de Benserade was citing it just the other day. Hold on . . . ah! Here it is: timeo Danaos et Doña ferentes. Which means, ‘Beware of the enemy who gives you gifts.’”
“But this diamond doesn’t come from an enemy, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, “it comes from the queen.”
“From the queen! Oh ho!” said Tréville. “To be sure, it’s a truly royal jewel, worth a thousand pistoles if it’s worth a denier. Who did the queen delegate to send you this little present?”
“She gave it to me herself.”
“Do you say so! Where was that?”
“In a closet adjoining her dressing room.”
“How did she do it?”
“She gave me her hand to kiss.”
“You kissed the hand of the queen?” Tréville was impressed. “Her Majesty did me that honor.”
“And in the presence of witnesses! Oh, that was rash, that was reckless!”
“Don’t worry, Monsieur, no one saw her,” replied d’Artagnan, and told Monsieur de Tréville how it had been managed.
“Ah, les femmes, les femmes!” cried the old soldier. “They live for romance! Everything mysterious is charming to them! So, you saw nothing more than an arm; you could meet the queen and not recognize her and she could see you and never know you.”
“No, but thanks to this diamond . . .”
“Listen,” said Tréville, “will you accept some advice, good advice, from a friend?”
“You honor me, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan.
“Take that diamond to the first goldsmith you come across and sell it for whatever he’ll give you. Even a Jew will give you no less than eight hundred pistoles for it. Money has no name, young man. That ring bears an awesome one and might betray he who wears it.”
“Sell this ring!” cried d’Artagnan. “Sell the ring that comes from my sovereign! Never!”
“Then at least turn the stone inside, you poor fool, for everyone knows that a cadet from Gascony doesn’t find such gems in his mother’s jewel box.”
“You really think I have something to fear?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Young man, a person sleeping over a land mine with a lit fuse is perfectly safe compared to you.”
“The devil!” Tréville’s certainty was finally beginning to get through to d’Artagnan. “What should I do?”
“You must be on your guard—always. The cardinal has a long memory and a longer arm. Believe me, he’ll do you some sort of injury.”
“Yes, but what?”
“Who can say? He knows every trick in Satan’s book. At a minimum, he’ll have you arrested.”
“What? Would they dare to arrest a man in His Majesty’s service?”
“Pardieu! They certainly dared to arrest Athos! In any case, young man, take the word of someone wh
o’s been thirty years at Court: never let down your guard for a moment, or you’re lost. On the contrary—it’s I who tell you this!—watch for enemies everywhere. If anyone picks a fight with you, even a ten-year-old child, avoid it. If you are attacked, day or night, beat a retreat without shame. If you cross a bridge, check every plank, or it may give way beneath your feet. If you pass a house being built, look up, or a stone may fall on your head. If you stay out late, make sure you’re followed by your lackey, and make sure he’s armed—and for that matter, make sure you can trust your lackey. Trust no one: not your friend, not your brother, not your mistress—especially not your mistress.”
D’Artagnan blushed. “My mistress,” he said stiffly. “Why her more than another?”
“Because a mistress is the cardinal’s favorite tool. He has none more useful: a woman will sell you for ten pistoles. Think of Delilah. You know your Scriptures, don’t you?”
D’Artagnan thought of the rendezvous Madame Bonacieux had arranged with him for that evening; but to our hero’s credit, it must be said that Monsieur de Tréville’s poor opinion of women didn’t make d’Artagnan the slightest bit suspicious of his pretty landlady.
Tréville broke in on his thoughts. “Do you know what’s happened to your three comrades?”
“I was about to ask if you had any news of them.”
“None, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I left them on the road: Porthos at Chantilly, with a duel on his hands; Aramis at Crèvecœur, with a ball in his shoulder; and Athos at Amiens, accused of counterfeiting.”
“God’s blood! And how did you escape?”
“I have to say, Monsieur, it was by a miracle, though I took a sword thrust in my chest on a back road near Calais, where I nailed Monsieur le Comte de Wardes like a butterfly to a tapestry.”
“You see? De Wardes—a cardinal’s man and Rochefort’s cousin. But wait, my friend, I’m getting an idea.”
“What’s that, Monsieur?”
“In your place, here’s what I’d do. While His Eminence was looking for me in Paris, I, without blowing my horn about it, would return up the road to Picardy to look for news of my three comrades. What the devil! They deserve some consideration from you.” “That’s good advice, Monsieur, and I’ll set out tomorrow.” “Tomorrow! And why not tonight?”
“Tonight, Monsieur, I’m detained in Paris on a vital matter.”
“Ah! Young man! Young man! Some little love affair? Take care, I repeat to you. It’s women who are our ruin, women who ruin us all. Trust me and leave tonight.”
“Impossible, Monsieur.”
“You’ve given your word?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Then that’s quite another thing. But promise me that, if you’re not killed tonight, you’ll set out tomorrow.”
“I promise.”
“Do you need any money?”
“I still have fifty pistoles. That’s as much as I’ll need, I think.”
“But your companions?”
“I don’t think they’ll be short. We each left Paris with seventy-five pistoles in our pockets.”
“Will I see you again before you leave?”
“I don’t think so, Monsieur, unless there’s some new trouble.”
“Then, the best of luck, and bon voyage.”
“Thanks, Monsieur.” And d’Artagnan took his leave of Monsieur de Tréville, touched more than ever by his fatherly solicitude for his musketeers.
He called successively at the homes of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, but none of them had returned. Their lackeys were likewise absent, and no one had heard news of any of them.
He would have asked their mistresses about them, but he didn’t know those of Porthos and Aramis—and Athos, of course, had none.
Passing by the Hôtel des Gardes, he glanced into the stables: three of the four horses had already arrived. Planchet, amazed, was in the midst of grooming them and was already done with the first two.
“Ah, Monsieur!” Planchet said. “How glad I am to see you!” “And why is that, Planchet?”
“Do you trust our landlord, Monsieur Bonacieux?”
“Trust him? Not the least in the world.”
“That’s a good thing, Monsieur.”
“Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that, while you were talking with him, I watched from above, and his face changed color two or three times.”
“Bah!”
“Monsieur may not have noticed, as he was preoccupied with the letter he’d received. But I, on the other hand, was on my guard, due to the strange way that letter got into our house. I paid close attention to the way Monsieur Bonacieux looked at you.”
“And you thought he was . . . ?”
“Treacherous, Monsieur.”
“Really!”
“Moreover, as soon as Monsieur had disappeared around the corner, Monsieur Bonacieux took his hat, shut his door, and set off at a run in the opposite direction.”
“I think you’re right, Planchet; that does sound fishy. Rest assured, we won’t pay our rent until the affair is explained to our complete satisfaction.”
“Monsieur is pleased to joke about it—but we’ll see.”
“What would you have, Planchet? What the fates have written, will be!”
“Monsieur has not given up on this evening’s outing, then?”
“On the contrary, Planchet. The more I have against Monsieur Bonacieux, the more eager I am to keep the rendezvous that was arranged in that letter that makes you so nervous.”
“Then, Monsieur is determined . . .”
“Immovably, my friend. Be ready here, at nine o’clock, and I’ll come to get you.”
Planchet, seeing there was no longer any hope of getting his master to renounce his excursion, heaved a profound sigh and set to grooming the third horse.
As to d’Artagnan, he was basically a careful youth, so instead of returning home, he went and dined with that Gascon priest who, during the financial distress of the four friends, had given them a breakfast of chocolate.
XXIV
The Pavilion
At nine that evening d’Artagnan was at the Hôtel des Gardes, where he found that the fourth horse had arrived. Planchet was ready to go, armed with his musketoon and pistol. D’Artagnan had his sword and had thrust a pair of pistols into his belt. Quietly, they mounted their horses and departed. It was a dark night, and no one saw them leave. Planchet fell in behind his master, about ten paces back.
D’Artagnan followed the river quays past the Louvre and the Tuileries, left the city by Porte La Conférence, and traveled along the road, prettier then than now, that leads to Saint-Cloud.
While they were in the city, Planchet maintained his respectful distance from d’Artagnan, but as the road became more lonely and dark, he drew gradually nearer. By the time they entered the Bois de Boulogne, he found himself quite naturally riding side by side with his master. The truth is, the swaying of the great trees and the moonlight dappling the dark underbrush made him rather uneasy.
D’Artagnan noticed that something was on his lackey’s mind. “Well, Monsieur Planchet,” he said, “what is it this time?”
“Don’t you find, Monsieur, that the woods are like churches?”
“How’s that?”
“Because one doesn’t dare speak too loudly in either.”
“Why don’t you dare speak up, Planchet? Afraid?”
“Yes, Monsieur—afraid of being overheard.”
“Afraid of being overheard! Our conversation is quite moral and proper, my dear Planchet, and no one could find fault with it.”
“Ah, Monsieur, that Bonacieux has a cunning look to his eyebrows,” said Planchet, returning to his former theme, “and he has a nasty way of twitching his lips!”
“What the devil brings Bonacieux to mind?”
“Monsieur, we think of what we must, not of what we will.”
“Only because you’re a coward, Planchet.”
“
Monsieur, don’t confuse caution with cowardice. Prudence is a virtue.”
“And you’re very virtuous, aren’t you, Planchet?”
“Monsieur, isn’t that the barrel of a musket shining over there? Shouldn’t we duck our heads?”
“Tréville was right,” murmured d’Artagnan, remembering the captain’s warning. “This fellow’s fear will end up infecting me.”
He put his horse into a trot. Planchet trotted beside him, following his master’s movements as if he were his shadow. “Are we going to keep up this pace all night, Monsieur?” he asked, as they emerged from the woods.
“No, Planchet, for you’ve arrived.”
“I’ve arrived? How’s that? And what about you, Monsieur?”
“I still have a little farther to go.”
“But Monsieur is leaving me alone here?”
“Are you scared, Planchet?”
“No, but Monsieur will please observe that it’s a very cold night, that chills can bring on rheumatism, and that a lackey who has rheumatism makes a poor servant, especially for a master as active as Monsieur is.”
“If you’re cold, go into one of those cabarets you can see down the road there. Just be waiting for me by the door at six in the morning.” “Monsieur, I did as you asked with the crown you gave me this morning and ate and drank to your health, but now I don’t have a sou left for something warm to ward off the cold.”
“Here’s a half-pistole. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
D’Artagnan dismounted from his horse, threw the bridle to Planchet and strode off, enveloped in his cloak.
“God, but I’m cold!” said Planchet, as soon as he’d lost sight of his master. Shivering, he hurried off to knock on the door of a building that bore all the hallmarks of a small suburban cabaret.
Meanwhile, d’Artagnan, who’d detoured onto a side road, continued on his way into Saint-Cloud. Instead of following the high street, he took a path behind the château, went down a back lane, and soon found himself opposite the pavilion he sought. It was a lonely spot. A high wall ran along one side of the street, at the corner of which was the pavilion; on the other side, behind a hedge, was a garden behind a rundown cottage.