Planchet made his way toward the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, d’Artagnan toward the Rue Férou. He found Athos at home, gloomily draining one of those famous bottles of Spanish wine brought back from his journey into Picardy. He made a sign to Grimaud to bring a glass for d’Artagnan and Grimaud silently obeyed.
D’Artagnan then related to Athos everything that had happened at the church between Porthos and the prosecutor’s wife, and how their comrade was probably, by that time, within sight of being fully equipped.
“As for me,” replied Athos, at the end of this story, “I’m perfectly satisfied to know that it won’t be the women who will defray my expenses.”
“But my dear Athos, you’re such a handsome, well-bred nobleman, not even princesses or queens would be safe from you.”
“Ah, this d’Artagnan lad. How young he is!” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders. And he signaled to Grimaud to bring another bottle.
Just then Planchet stuck his head timidly through the half-open door and announced to his master that he was there with the horses.
“What horses?” asked Athos.
“A pair Monsieur de Tréville lends me when I need them, and which I’m going to take on a ride over to Saint-Germain.”
“And why should you want to go to Saint-Germain?” asked Athos.
Then d’Artagnan described his other encounter at the church, when he’d discovered that woman who, along with the cavalier in the black cloak and scarred temple, was his eternal preoccupation.
“In other words, you’ve fallen for this woman, as you fell for Madame Bonacieux,” said Athos, shrugging disdainfully at the pitiful weakness of mankind.
“Me? I should say not!” cried d’Artagnan. “I’m just eager to clear up this mystery she’s involved in. I don’t know why, but though I don’t know her, and she doesn’t know me, I have a feeling she’s strangely involved somehow in my life.”
“No doubt you’re right,” said Athos. “I never knew a woman who was worth the trouble of finding once she was lost. Madame Bonacieux is lost—too bad for her! She’ll just have to find herself.”
“No, Athos, you’ve got it all wrong,” said d’Artagnan. “I love my poor Constance more than ever, and if I knew where she was, even at the end of the Earth, I’d go there and free her from the hands of her enemies. But I know nothing, and all my searches have been in vain. What would you have? I must distract myself somehow.”
“Distract yourself, then, with this Milady, my dear d’Artagnan. If it will amuse you, you have my blessing.”
“Listen, Athos,” said d’Artagnan, “instead of locking yourself up in here as if you’d been arrested, get on your horse and take a ride with me to Saint-Germain.”
“My friend,” replied Athos, “I ride horses when I have them; when I don’t, I walk.”
“Fine,” said d’Artagnan, smiling at Athos’s surliness, which would have wounded him if it had come from anyone else. “As for me, I’m not as proud as you; I ride whatever I can find. I’ll see you later, friend Athos.”
“Au revoir,” said the musketeer, making a sign to Grimaud to open the bottle he’d brought.
D’Artagnan and Planchet climbed into their saddles and took the road to Saint-Germain. Along the way what Athos had said to the young man about Madame Bonacieux kept coming back to him. Although d’Artagnan’s character was not all that sentimental, the mercer’s pretty wife had made a real impression on his heart. As he’d said, he was ready to go to the end of the world in search of her. But as the world, being round, has many ends, he didn’t know which way to turn.
So in the meantime, he was going to try to learn who Milady was. Milady had spoken to the man in the black cloak, so she knew him. D’Artagnan was convinced that the man in the black cloak had abducted Madame Bonacieux the second time, just as he’d done the first. So d’Artagnan told only half a lie, which isn’t lying much, when he said that by undertaking a search for Milady he was at the same time searching for Constance.
Mulling this over, now and then touching his spur to his horse, d’Artagnan soon arrived at Saint-Germain. He’d just passed the pavilion where, ten years or so later, Louis XIV would be born, and was riding along a deserted street, looking right and left for any hint of the beautiful Englishwoman. Then, before the ground floor of a pretty house which, as was usual for the period, had no windows toward the street, he saw someone who looked familiar, strolling along a sort of garden terrace planted with flowers.
Planchet was the first to recognize him. “Ohé, Monsieur,” he said, addressing d’Artagnan, “don’t you remember the face of that fellow loafing in the flowerbeds?”
“No,” said d’Artagnan, “but I’m certain this isn’t the first time I’ve seen it.”
“I should think not,” said Planchet. “It’s that poor sap Lubin, lackey of the Comte de Wardes, whom you dealt with last month at Calais on the road to the governor’s country house.”
“So it is,” said d’Artagnan. “I recognize him now. Say—do you think he would recognize you?”
“My faith, Monsieur, he was in so much trouble at the time, I doubt he’d have a clear memory of me.”
“Well, then, go strike up a conversation with the lad,” said d’Artagnan, “and find out from him if his master survived.”
Planchet got off his horse and marched right up to Lubin, who did not in fact recognize him, and the two lackeys began to chat like the best friends in the world. Meanwhile, d’Artagnan took the two horses up an alley and around the block, reappearing on the other side of the house to watch the conversation from behind a hazel hedge.
After having been behind the hedge for no more than a moment he heard the sound of wheels, then saw Milady’s carriage pull up opposite him. He couldn’t be mistaken: Milady was visible within. D’Artagnan quickly ducked down behind his horse’s neck so he could see without being seen.
Milady put her charming blond head out the window and gave some orders to her chambermaid. The latter, a pretty girl of about twenty to twenty-two, lively and alert, the true soubrette of a grande dame, jumped down from the carriage step—where, according to the custom of the time, she’d been seated—and ran over to the terrace where d’Artagnan had seen Lubin.
D’Artagnan’s gaze followed the soubrette as she made her way to the terrace. By chance, just then an order from inside the house called Lubin within, so that Planchet was left alone, looking around for his master.
The chambermaid approached Planchet, whom she took for Lubin, and held out a letter. “For your master,” she said.
“For my master?” replied Planchet, astonished.
“Yes, and it’s urgent. Take it, and be quick.”
She then ran back to the carriage, which had turned around to face the way it had come. She hopped onto the step and the carriage drove off.
Planchet turned the letter over and over in his hands; then, accustomed to passive obedience, he hopped down from the terrace and trotted up the alley. After twenty paces he encountered d’Artagnan who, having seen everything, was coming around to meet him.
“For you, Monsieur,” said Planchet, presenting the letter to the young man.
“For me?” said d’Artagnan. “Are you sure?”
“By God! Am I sure? The soubrette said to me, ‘For your master.’ I don’t have any other master but you, so here it is. A pretty little bit of a girl, that soubrette, upon my soul!”
D’Artagnan opened the letter and read these words:
A person who is more interested in you than she dares to say wants to know on what day it would suit you to take a promenade in the forest. Tomorrow, at the Auberge of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, a servant in black and red will await your reply.
“Oh ho!” d’Artagnan said to himself. “This is hot stuff. It seems Milady and I are concerned about the health of the same person. Well, Planchet, how is the good Monsieur de Wardes doing? He’s not dead, I suppose?”
“No, Monsieur, he’s doing about as well as a person c
an who’s taken four thrusts through the body. You gave him four of the best, no doubt about it, and he’s still very weak, having lost nearly all his blood. Like I said, Monsieur, Lubin didn’t recognize me, and he told me the whole story of our encounter.”
“Well done, Planchet—you’re the king of lackeys! Now, get back on your horse and let’s catch that carriage.”
It didn’t take long. Within five minutes they spotted the carriage pulled over by the side of the road, with a richly-dressed, mounted cavalier conversing at the door.
The conversation between Milady and the cavalier was so animated that d’Artagnan approached the other side of the carriage without anyone but the pretty soubrette noticing him. The conversation was taking place in English, a language d’Artagnan didn’t know, but by her tone the young man could tell that the beautiful Englishwoman was furious. She ended the discussion with a thoroughly unambiguous gesture, a blow with her fan, swung with such force that the little feminine accessory flew into a thousand pieces. The cavalier burst into laughter, which seemed to exasperate Milady further.
D’Artagnan thought this was the moment to intervene. He approached the opposite door of the carriage, removed his hat respectfully and said, “Madame, will you permit me to offer you my services? It seems to me this cavalier has angered you. Give the word, Madame, and I’ll undertake to punish him for his bad manners.”
At the first word, Milady turned around and looked at the young man with astonishment. When he’d finished she said, in excellent French, “Monsieur, I’d gladly place myself under your protection— if the person I’m quarrelling with weren’t my brother.”
“Ah! Pardon me, Madame!” said d’Artagnan. “I had no idea.”
“What is that dolt going on about?” bellowed the cavalier whom Milady had called her brother, leaning over in the saddle to look through the window on the opposite side. “And why doesn’t he mind his own business?”
“Dolt, yourself!” said d’Artagnan, leaning down on the neck of his own horse and talking through the window on his side. “I’ll mind my own business wherever it pleases me.”
The cavalier addressed a few words in English to his sister. “I’m speaking to you in French, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan. “Do me the favor to reply in the same language. If you’re Madame’s brother, so be it. Fortunately, you’re not mine.”
One might suppose that Milady, if she were as wary of trouble as most women, would try to break this cycle of provocation before the quarrel went too far. But she, on the contrary, sat back in her carriage and coolly called out to her coachman, “Drive on! Back to the hôtel.”
The pretty soubrette cast an anxious glance at d’Artagnan, whose good looks seemed to have made an impression on her.
The carriage departed, leaving the two men facing each other with no obstacle between them. The cavalier made a move to follow the carriage, but d’Artagnan grabbed his bridle and stopped him. He was even further incensed when he recognized the cavalier as the Englishman who, at Amiens, had won d’Artagnan’s horse from Athos and nearly won his diamond.
“Not so fast,” he said. “You seem to be an even bigger dolt than I am—or are you forgetting that we have a little quarrel to arrange?”
“Ah!” said the Englishman. “It’s you, is it, my lad? It seems you’re always playing one game or another.”
“Yes, and that reminds me that I have a revenge to take for the last one. We’ll see, Monsieur, if you’re as clever with a rapier as with a dice-cup.”
“As you can see, I’m not wearing a sword,” said the Englishman. “Will you bully an unarmed man?”
“I have to hope you have one at home,” replied d’Artagnan. “In any case, I have two. If you like, I’ll dice you for one of them.”
“Don’t bother,” said the Englishman. “I’m well supplied in that regard.”
“Well, then, my worthy gentleman,” said d’Artagnan, “pick out your longest and come show it to me this evening.”
“Where, if you please?”
“Behind the Luxembourg; that’s a charming spot for the sort of promenade I propose.”
“That will do. I’ll be there.”
“Your hour?”
“Six o’clock.”
“You have, perhaps, one or two friends?”
“I have three who would be honored to join me.”
“Three? Perfect. That’s just my number,” said d’Artagnan.
“Now who, exactly, are you?” asked the Englishman.
“I’m Monsieur d’Artagnan, gentleman of Gascony, serving in the guards, company of Monsieur des Essarts. And you?”
“I am Lord Winter, Baron of Sheffield.”83
“Well, then, I’m your servant, Monsieur le Baron,” said d’Artagnan, “though your names are a little difficult to retain.” And pricking his horse to a gallop, he took off up the road to Paris.
As he usually did in this sort of situation, d’Artagnan went straight to Athos’s house. He found Athos stretched out on a large sofa, where he was waiting, as he’d said, for his equipment to come find him. D’Artagnan recounted to Athos everything that had happened, leaving out only the letter to Monsieur de Wardes.
Athos was enchanted to hear he was going to fight an Englishman. As has been said, this was his dream. They immediately sent their lackeys to find Porthos and Aramis, and told them, once they arrived, what was going on.
Porthos drew his sword from its scabbard and made a few lunges at the wall, shadow-parrying from time to time and leaping about like a dancer. Aramis, who was always working on his poem, shut himself up in Athos’s study and asked not to be disturbed until it was time to draw steel.
Athos just signaled to Grimaud to bring another bottle.
Meanwhile, d’Artagnan busied himself with a little scheme of which we’ll soon see the results. Based on the smile that passed across his face from time to time, it appeared to promise a thoroughly gratifying adventure.
XXXI
English and French
The hour of the duel arrived, and the four friends, with their lackeys, made their way to the rear of the Luxembourg Palace, to a goat corral behind the kitchens. Athos tossed a coin to the goatherd to run off the goats. The lackeys were posted as lookouts.
A silent group of Englishmen soon approached the corral and entered it, joining the musketeers. Then, according to the custom on the other side of the Channel, the formal presentations took place.
As the Englishmen were all men of quality, their adversaries’ bizarre names came as a surprise and made them rather uneasy. “But, see here,” said Lord Winter, when the three friends had been named, “we don’t know who you really are. We can’t fight fellows with such outlandish names. Those are the names of shepherds, not gentlemen.”
“Then you must suppose, Milord, that they are assumed names,” said Athos.
“Which only makes us want to know your true names all the more,” replied the Englishman.
“You were perfectly happy to gamble with us without knowing who we were,” said Athos, “as shown by the fact that you won both our horses.”
“Quite so, but then we risked only our pistoles. Now we risk our blood. One may play with anyone, but one fights only with equals.”
“Quite proper,” said Athos. He took aside the Englishman with whom he was to fight and whispered his real name to him. Porthos and Aramis then did the same.
“Does that satisfy you?” Athos said to his adversary. “Do you find me sufficiently noble to do me the honor to cross swords with me?”
The Englishman bowed. “Yes, Monsieur.”
“Very well,” said Athos coolly. “Now, there is something else I must tell you.”
“And that is . . . ?”
“That you would have done better not to insist that I identify myself.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I am believed to be dead and have reasons why no one should know that I’m still alive. I’m now obliged to kill you to keep my secret f
rom getting out.”
The Englishman looked at Athos as if he thought he must be joking—but he wasn’t. “Messieurs,” Athos said, addressing both companions and adversaries, “are we all ready?”
“Yes,” English and French answered with one voice.
“Then, en garde,” Athos said. Immediately eight swords gleamed in the rays of the setting sun, and the battle began with the ferocity of men who were enemies twice over.
Athos fenced with the same calmness and method as if practicing in a salle d’armes. Porthos, his overconfidence no doubt reined in by his misadventure in Chantilly, fought with finesse and prudence. Aramis, who had the third canto of his poem to finish, fought like a man pressed for time.
Athos was the first to kill his adversary. He struck him only once but, as he’d foretold, the blow was mortal: Athos ran him through the heart.
Porthos was second, laying his man on the grass with a thrust through the thigh. Then, as the Englishman put up no more resistance, Porthos picked him up in his arms and carried him to his carriage.
Aramis pressed his man so vigorously that, after forcing him to fall back fifty paces, he finally took to his heels and disappeared, followed by the hoots of the lackeys.
As to d’Artagnan, he fought purely and simply on the defensive. Then, when he saw that his adversary was nearly worn out, d’Artagnan caught his sword in a vigorous bind, and with a twist he sent it flying. The baron, disarmed, retreated two or three steps, then his foot slipped and he fell on his back.
With a bound d’Artagnan was upon him and placed his point at the baron’s throat. “I could kill you, Monsieur,” he said to the Englishman, “and you are entirely in my hands, but I’ll spare your life for love of your sister.”
D’Artagnan was thrilled; he had succeeded with his little plan, the one that had brought so many smiles to his face as he thought it through.