“Really!” said d’Artagnan. “Well, all I can say is your publisher is quite generous, my dear Aramis.”
“How, Monsieur!” cried Bazin. “A poem sold for as much as that! It’s incredible! Oh, Monsieur—write as much as you want! You may become the equal of Monsieur Voiture and Monsieur Benserade. I’d like that. A poet is as good as an abbot. Please, Monsieur Aramis, become a poet—I beg of you.”
“Bazin, my friend,” said Aramis, “I believe you are intruding on my conversation.”
Bazin saw he was in the wrong; he bowed and departed.
“You sell your script for its weight in gold,” said d’Artagnan with a smile. “You’re very lucky, my friend—but watch out, or you’re going to lose that letter sticking out of your doublet, which no doubt also comes from your publisher.”
Aramis, blushing to the eyes, thrust the letter back into his doublet and buttoned it up to his neck. “My dear d’Artagnan,” he said, “let’s go, if you please, and find our friends. Since I’m well off, we may resume dining together again, until it’s once more your turn to be rich.”
“My faith!” said d’Artagnan, with great pleasure. “It’s been too long since we’ve had dinner together. And as I have a rather hazardous expedition to make tonight, I confess I won’t be sorry to brace myself with some bottles of old burgundy.”
“I wouldn’t say no to some old burgundy,” said Aramis, whose ideas of retreat from the world had been completely effaced by the sight of the gold. Pocketing three or four double pistoles to answer the needs of the moment, he put the others into that ebony coffer inlaid with mother-of-pearl, next to the famous handkerchief that served as his talisman.
The two friends went to visit Athos who, faithful to his oath not to leave his lodgings, sent out to order dinner brought in. As he was a connoisseur on the subject of gastronomy, d’Artagnan and Aramis had no hesitation about leaving these important details to him. They took themselves off to find Porthos—but at the corner of the Rue du Bac they encountered Mousqueton, who with an air of self-pity was driving before him a horse and a mule.
D’Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise, not unmixed with joy. “My yellow horse!” he cried. “Aramis, look at that horse!”
“How appallingly bilious!” said Aramis.
“Really? Well, my friend,” replied d’Artagnan, “it was on that very horse that I came to Paris.”
“What? Monsieur knows this horse?” said Mousqueton.
“Its color is certainly distinctive,” said Aramis. “I’ve never seen a hide quite like it.”
“I can believe that,” said d’Artagnan. “That’s how I got three crowns for him. It must have been for his hide, for his carcass certainly isn’t worth any eighteen livres. But how did this horse find its way into your hands, Mousqueton?”
“Let’s not talk about that, Monsieur,” said the valet. “It’s a dirty trick played on us by the husband of our duchess.”
“How’s that, Mousqueton?”
“As you know, we’re looked on with favor by a lady of quality, the Duchesse de . . . but no! Begging your pardon, my master has ordered me to be discreet. She pressed upon us, as a little keepsake, a magnificent Spanish jennet, plus an Andalusian mule that looked simply gorgeous. The husband heard about it, confiscated the fine animals she was sending to us, and substituted these horrid beasts.”
“Which you’re returning to him?” said d’Artagnan.
“Exactly!” replied Mousqueton. “You don’t imagine we could accept mounts like these in exchange for those promised to us.”
“Not at all—though I would have liked to see Porthos on my Buttercup, by God! That would give me some idea of how I looked myself when I arrived in Paris. But don’t let us keep you, Mousqueton—go and complete your master’s mission. Is he at home?”
“Yes, Monsieur, but he’s in a rotten humor,” Mousqueton said. “Get along, you!” And he continued on his way toward the Quai des Grands-Augustins while the two friends went to ring the bell at the door of the unlucky Porthos. He, having spotted them crossing the forecourt, was careful not to answer, and they rang the bell in vain.
Meanwhile, Mousqueton continued on his way. Crossing the Pont Neuf, driving the two nags ahead of him, he reached the Rue aux Ours. Arriving there, according to his master’s orders, he hitched the horse and the mule to the prosecutor’s doorknocker. Then, without bothering himself as to their fate, he returned to Porthos and announced his mission accomplished.
After a while the two unfortunate beasts, who hadn’t eaten anything since the morning, kicked up such a fuss with the doorknocker that the prosecutor ordered his demi-clerk to go ask around the neighborhood to find out who the nags belonged to.
Meanwhile, Madame Coquenard had recognized her gifts, but couldn’t understand their sudden restitution. However, a visit from Porthos soon cleared this up. The wrath that smoldered in the musketeer’s eyes, in spite of his efforts to suppress it, terrified his sensitive inamorata. Mousqueton had mentioned running into d’Artagnan and Aramis, and that d’Artagnan had recognized the yellow horse as the Béarnaise pony on which he’d come to Paris.
Porthos departed after setting a rendezvous with madame in the Cloister of Saint-Magloire. Seeing that he was on his way out, the prosecutor invited him to dinner, an invitation the musketeer refused with a majestic air.
Madame Coquenard went trembling to the Cloister of Saint-Magloire, for she guessed what reproaches awaited her there—but she couldn’t resist Porthos and his haughty and noble airs.
All the imprecations and reproaches that a man wounded in his pride could inflict on a woman Porthos hurled upon the bowed head of the prosecutor’s wife. “Alas!” she said. “I was just trying to do what was best for everyone. One of our clients is a horse-trader and owed us money in arrears. I took the mule and the horse in place of what he owed—he promised me two noble steeds.”
“Well, Madame,” said Porthos, “if he owed you more than five crowns, your horse-trader is a thief.”
“There’s nothing wrong with trying to get a bargain, Monsieur Porthos,” Madame said, looking for an excuse.
“No, Madame—but those whose first interest is a bargain should permit others to find more generous friends.” And Porthos, turning on his heel, made as if to go.
“Monsieur Porthos! Monsieur Porthos!” cried the prosecutor’s wife. “I’ve been wrong, I know that—I shouldn’t have tried to bargain when it comes to equipping a cavalier like you!”
Porthos, without a word, continued to walk away.
To the lady, it seemed as if he was leaving for a golden realm where duchesses and marquises threw bags of money at his feet.
“Monsieur Porthos, stop, in the name of heaven!” she cried. “Stop, and let’s talk.”
“Talking with you just brings me bad luck,” said Porthos.
“But tell me, what do you ask of me?”
“I ask for nothing, because it brings the same result as asking for something.”
She hung on his arm and cried out, in her grief, “Monsieur Porthos, I know nothing of such things! What do I know of horses or harnesses?”
“You should have left it to me, Madame, who does know. But you prefer bargaining and usury.”
“I was wrong, Monsieur Porthos, but I’ll make good, on my word of honor.”
“And how will you do that?” asked the musketeer.
“Listen. Tonight Monsieur Coquenard is going to visit Monsieur le Duc de Chaulnes,89 who has sent for him. Their meeting will last at least three hours. Come to me: we’ll be alone, and can settle our accounts.”
“Now, my dear, that sounds more like it!”
“You’ll forgive me?”
“We shall see,” Porthos said majestically.
And they parted, saying, “Till this evening.”
The devil! thought Porthos as he walked away. I may see the inside of Master Coquenard’s armoire after all.
XXXV
At Night All Cats Are Gray
The evenin
g, awaited so impatiently by both Porthos and d’Artagnan, finally arrived.
As was his custom, d’Artagnan presented himself at Milady’s at about nine o’clock. He found her in a charming mood. Never before had she received him so warmly. The Gascon knew at first glance that his letter had been delivered and its message had taken effect.
Kitty came in with some sorbets. Her mistress, with a face that would charm a statue, smiled on her graciously. Alas! The poor girl was so distressed, she never noticed Milady’s benevolence.
D’Artagnan looked from one to the other of these women, and had to confess that Nature had erred in their creation. The grande dame had received a soul venal and vile, while the soubrette had been given the heart of a duchess.
At ten o’clock Milady began to appear uneasy. D’Artagnan knew what she wanted to say. She looked at the clock, rose, sat down again, and smiled at d’Artagnan as if to say, “You’re a pleasant enough fellow, but you’d be far more charming if you left!”
D’Artagnan rose and took his hat. Milady gave him her hand to kiss. The young man felt her press his hand, but knew she wasn’t flirting, she was just grateful for his departure.
“She loves him like the devil loves sin,” he said to himself. Then he departed.
This time Kitty wasn’t waiting for him, neither in the antechamber, in the corridor, nor at the gate. D’Artagnan had to find the little staircase to her room by himself.
Kitty lay with her head in her hands, crying. She heard d’Artagnan enter, but didn’t raise her head. The young man sat next to her and took her hands, but she just sobbed.
As d’Artagnan had predicted, Milady had been delirious with joy on receiving the letter and had told her servant everything. To reward Kitty for accomplishing her mission, Milady had given her a purse heavy with coin. Kitty, upon returning to her room, had thrown this purse into a corner. There it lay, three or four coins spilling out onto the carpet.
Hearing d’Artagnan’s voice, the poor girl raised her head. d’Artagnan was startled by her expression, which was agony made visible. She clasped her hands together like a supplicant, but couldn’t utter a single word.
D’Artagnan was insensitive, as youth must be, but even his heart was touched by this silent grief. However, he was too attached to his plan to change it now. And he gave Kitty no such hope, merely described his intended actions as solely driven by vengeance.
Accomplishing this vengeance was made easy for him, for Milady, doubtless to pretend to conceal her blushes from her lover, had ordered Kitty to put out all the lights in her chambers, even her bedchamber. Well before dawn, Monsieur de Wardes must leave, unseen.
Soon they heard Milady retire to her bedchamber. D’Artagnan immediately slipped into the wardrobe. He was barely inside it when Milady’s little bell sounded.
Kitty answered her mistress’s summons, but shut the door behind her. Nonetheless, the partition was so thin that d’Artagnan could hear everything the two women said.
Milady seemed giddy with glee, and made Kitty repeat the tiniest details of her imaginary interview with de Wardes. How had he received the letter? How had he responded? What was the expression on his face? Did he seem at all lovestruck? Kitty, forced to wear a smiling face, replied to all these questions in a choked voice that her mistress never noticed. Happiness is always egotistical.
Then, as the hour for the advent of the count approached, Milady had all the lights dimmed or extinguished. She ordered Kitty to return to her room, but to be prepared to introduce de Wardes when he arrived.
Kitty didn’t have long to wait. D’Artagnan had been watching through a crack in the wardrobe. He’d scarcely seen the lights extinguished before he was slipping out of his hiding place, just as Kitty closed the door between her room and Milady’s.
“What is that noise?” demanded Milady.
“It is I,” said d’Artagnan, half-whispering, “I, the Comte de Wardes.”
“My God, my God,” murmured Kitty, “he can’t even wait until the time he appointed!”
“Well, then,” said Milady, her voice trembling, “why don’t you come in? Count, Count—you know I await you!”
At this call, d’Artagnan softly left Kitty behind and entered Milady’s bedchamber.
What emotion, even rage or sorrow, can match the exquisite torture produced when a lover, under an assumed name, hears declarations of love addressed to his lucky rival? This was a heartrending circumstance that d’Artagnan hadn’t foreseen. Jealousy gnawed at his heart, and he suffered almost as much as poor Kitty, who wept quietly in the adjoining chamber.
“Yes, Count,” said Milady, in her sweetest voice, tenderly caressing d’Artagnan’s hand, “yes, I rejoiced in the love you showed me through your looks and your words whenever we met. And I love you in return. Oh, tomorrow, tomorrow I must have some keepsake from you that proves that you think of me and won’t forget me. Take this!”
And she pulled a ring from her finger and pushed it onto one of d’Artagnan’s. He remembered having seen this ring on Milady’s hand: it was a magnificent sapphire encircled with diamond brilliants.
D’Artagnan’s first impulse was to return it, but Milady breathed, “No, no. Care for that ring as you care for me. Besides,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion, “in accepting it, you do me a much greater favor than you could ever imagine.”
“This woman is made of mysteries,” d’Artagnan said to himself.
He was nerving himself up to reveal everything, to tell Milady who he really was, and for what vengeance he’d come, when she murmured, “You poor angel, nearly killed by that monster of a Gascon!”
He was that monster.
“Your wounds,” she said, “do they still make you suffer?”
“Yes, a . . . a lot,” whispered d’Artagnan, who didn’t know quite what to say.
“Rest easy,” murmured Milady. “I will avenge you—and most cruelly!”
Peste! d’Artagnan thought. I’d better delay revealing any secrets.
It was some time before d’Artagnan resumed their little dialogue, as they were otherwise occupied—and by then, all the ideas of vengeance he’d brought with him had completely vanished. This woman held an incredible power over him: he hated her, and at the same time he adored her. He would never have believed that two such opposite feelings could live in the same heart, and together form a love so strange as to be almost diabolical.
The bells tolled one o’clock; it was time to part. As he left Milady, d’Artagnan felt only regret at parting from her. They exchanged passionate goodbyes and agreed on another rendezvous for the following week. Poor Kitty had hoped to have a few words with d’Artagnan as he passed through her chamber, but Milady herself escorted him out through the darkness, leaving him only at the staircase that led to the door.
The next morning, d’Artagnan hurried to Athos’s house. He was engaged in such a bizarre adventure that he had to have advice. He told Athos everything.
Athos frowned more than once in the telling. “Your ‘Milady’ seems to me an infamous creature, but nonetheless it was a mistake to deceive her so. One way or another, you’ll see that you’ve made a terrible enemy.”
As he said this, Athos first noticed, then focused all his attention on the sapphire ring set with diamonds that d’Artagnan wore on his finger. It had taken the place of the queen’s ring, now secreted away in its own small box.
“You’re looking at this ring?” the Gascon said, proud to display such a glorious present to his friend.
“Yes,” said Athos. “It reminds me of a family jewel.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said d’Artagnan.
“Magnificent,” replied Athos. “I didn’t think two sapphires of such fine water existed. Did you trade your diamond ring for this?”
“No,” said d’Artagnan, “it’s a gift from my lovely Englishwoman —or rather, my lovely Frenchwoman. I haven’t asked her about it, but I’m convinced she was born in France.”
“T
his ring comes from Milady?” cried Athos, in a voice that couldn’t hide his shock.
“Milady herself. She gave it to me last night.”
“Let me see that ring,” said Athos.
“Here it is,” d’Artagnan said, and took it from his finger.
Athos examined it, and became very pale. He tried it on the ring finger of his left hand: it slipped on as if made for it. An angry cloud darkened his usually calm brow.
“It’s impossible for it to be the same,” he said. “How could this ring find its way into the hands of Milady de Winter? And yet it’s hard to imagine that two such gems should be so similar.”
“You know this ring?” asked d’Artagnan.
“I thought I knew it,” said Athos, “but doubtless I was mistaken.” He returned it to d’Artagnan, but continued to look at it.
“D’Artagnan,” Athos said, after a minute or two, “either take that ring off your finger or turn the stone inside. It brings back such cruel memories that I don’t think I could continue to talk with you. Don’t ask me for advice, by God; don’t tell me you’re over your head and don’t know what you should do!” He paused. “Wait. Give me the sapphire again. The one I once knew had one of its faces marred in an accident.”
D’Artagnan took the ring from his finger and gave it once more to Athos.
The musketeer started. “Here,” he said. “Look. Now, isn’t that strange?” And he showed d’Artagnan the scratch he’d remembered.
“But who did this sapphire come from, Athos?”
“From my mother, who had it from her mother. As I said, it’s an old jewel—one that should never have left the family.”
D’Artagnan hesitated. “And you . . . you sold it?” he asked.
“No,” replied Athos, with a strange smile. “I gave it away during a night of love—just as it was given to you.”
It was d’Artagnan’s turn to be thoughtful. He seemed to see abysses in Milady’s soul whose depths were dark and unknown.
He took back the ring, but put it in his pocket rather than on his finger.
“Listen,” Athos said to him, taking his hand. “You know I love you, d’Artagnan. If I had a son I couldn’t love him more than you. Hear me: give up this woman. I don’t know who she is,” he said, “but a kind of intuition tells me she is a lost creature, and that there’s something fatal about her.”