Chapter Chapter 1 · Chapter I. THE THREE PRESENTS OF D’ARTAGNAN THE ELDER

. Chapter I. THE THREE PRESENTS OF D’ARTAGNAN THE ELDER

On the first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the market town of

Meung, in which the author of _Romance of the Rose_ was born, appeared

to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just

made a second La Rochelle of it. Many citizens, seeing the women flying

toward the High Street, leaving their children crying at the open

doors, hastened to don the cuirass, and supporting their somewhat

uncertain courage with a musket or a partisan, directed their steps

toward the hostelry of the Jolly Miller, before which was gathered,

increasing every minute, a compact group, vociferous and full of

curiosity.

In those times panics were common, and few days passed without some

city or other registering in its archives an event of this kind. There

were nobles, who made war against each other; there was the king, who

made war against the cardinal; there was Spain, which made war against

the king. Then, in addition to these concealed or public, secret or

open wars, there were robbers, mendicants, Huguenots, wolves, and

scoundrels, who made war upon everybody. The citizens always took up

arms readily against thieves, wolves or scoundrels, often against

nobles or Huguenots, sometimes against the king, but never against the

cardinal or Spain. It resulted, then, from this habit that on the said

first Monday of April, 1625, the citizens, on hearing the clamor, and

seeing neither the red-and-yellow standard nor the livery of the Duc de

Richelieu, rushed toward the hostel of the Jolly Miller. When arrived

there, the cause of the hubbub was apparent to all.

A young man—we can sketch his portrait at a dash. Imagine to yourself a

Don Quixote of eighteen; a Don Quixote without his corselet, without

his coat of mail, without his cuisses; a Don Quixote clothed in a

woolen doublet, the blue color of which had faded into a nameless shade

between lees of wine and a heavenly azure; face long and brown; high

cheek bones, a sign of sagacity; the maxillary muscles enormously

developed, an infallible sign by which a Gascon may always be detected,

even without his cap—and our young man wore a cap set off with a sort

of feather; the eye open and intelligent; the nose hooked, but finely

chiseled. Too big for a youth, too small for a grown man, an

experienced eye might have taken him for a farmer’s son upon a journey

had it not been for the long sword which, dangling from a leather

baldric, hit against the calves of its owner as he walked, and against

the rough side of his steed when he was on horseback.

For our young man had a steed which was the observed of all observers.

It was a Béarn pony, from twelve to fourteen years old, yellow in his

hide, without a hair in his tail, but not without windgalls on his

legs, which, though going with his head lower than his knees, rendering

a martingale quite unnecessary, contrived nevertheless to perform his

eight leagues a day. Unfortunately, the qualities of this horse were so

well concealed under his strange-colored hide and his unaccountable

gait, that at a time when everybody was a connoisseur in horseflesh,

the appearance of the aforesaid pony at Meung—which place he had

entered about a quarter of an hour before, by the gate of

Beaugency—produced an unfavorable feeling, which extended to his rider.

And this feeling had been more painfully perceived by young

D’Artagnan—for so was the Don Quixote of this second Rosinante

named—from his not being able to conceal from himself the ridiculous

appearance that such a steed gave him, good horseman as he was. He had

sighed deeply, therefore, when accepting the gift of the pony from M.

d’Artagnan the elder. He was not ignorant that such a beast was worth

at least twenty livres; and the words which had accompanied the present

were above all price.

“My son,” said the old Gascon gentleman, in that pure Béarn _patois_ of

which Henry IV. could never rid himself, “this horse was born in the

house of your father about thirteen years ago, and has remained in it

ever since, which ought to make you love it. Never sell it; allow it to

die tranquilly and honorably of old age, and if you make a campaign

with it, take as much care of it as you would of an old servant. At

court, provided you have ever the honor to go there,” continued M.

d’Artagnan the elder, “—an honor to which, remember, your ancient

nobility gives you the right—sustain worthily your name of gentleman,

which has been worthily borne by your ancestors for five hundred years,

both for your own sake and the sake of those who belong to you. By the

latter I mean your relatives and friends. Endure nothing from anyone

except Monsieur the Cardinal and the king. It is by his courage, please

observe, by his courage alone, that a gentleman can make his way

nowadays. Whoever hesitates for a second perhaps allows the bait to

escape which during that exact second fortune held out to him. You are

young. You ought to be brave for two reasons: the first is that you are

a Gascon, and the second is that you are my son. Never fear quarrels,

but seek adventures. I have taught you how to handle a sword; you have

thews of iron, a wrist of steel. Fight on all occasions. Fight the more

for duels being forbidden, since consequently there is twice as much

courage in fighting. I have nothing to give you, my son, but fifteen

crowns, my horse, and the counsels you have just heard. Your mother

will add to them a recipe for a certain balsam, which she had from a

Bohemian and which has the miraculous virtue of curing all wounds that

do not reach the heart. Take advantage of all, and live happily and

long. I have but one word to add, and that is to propose an example to

you—not mine, for I myself have never appeared at court, and have only

taken part in religious wars as a volunteer; I speak of Monsieur de

Tréville, who was formerly my neighbor, and who had the honor to be, as

a child, the play-fellow of our king, Louis XIII., whom God preserve!

Sometimes their play degenerated into battles, and in these battles the

king was not always the stronger. The blows which he received increased

greatly his esteem and friendship for Monsieur de Tréville. Afterward,

Monsieur de Tréville fought with others: in his first journey to Paris,

five times; from the death of the late king till the young one came of

age, without reckoning wars and sieges, seven times; and from that date

up to the present day, a hundred times, perhaps! So that in spite of

edicts, ordinances, and decrees, there he is, captain of the

Musketeers; that is to say, chief of a legion of Cæsars, whom the king

holds in great esteem and whom the cardinal dreads—he who dreads

nothing, as it is said. Still further, Monsieur de Tréville gains ten

thousand crowns a year; he is therefore a great noble. He began as you

begin. Go to him with this letter, and make him your model in order

that you may do as he has done.”

Upon which M. d’Artagnan the elder girded his own sword round his son,

kissed him tenderly on both cheeks, and gave him his benediction.

On leaving the paternal chamber, the young man found his mother, who

was waiting for him with the famous recipe of which the counsels we

have just repeated would necessitate frequent employment. The adieux

were on this side longer and more tender than they had been on the

other—not that M. d’Artagnan did not love his son, who was his only

offspring, but M. d’Artagnan was a man, and he would have considered it

unworthy of a man to give way to his feelings; whereas Mme. D’Artagnan

was a woman, and still more, a mother. She wept abundantly; and—let us

speak it to the praise of M. d’Artagnan the younger—notwithstanding the

efforts he made to remain firm, as a future Musketeer ought, nature

prevailed, and he shed many tears, of which he succeeded with great

difficulty in concealing the half.

The same day the young man set forward on his journey, furnished with

the three paternal gifts, which consisted, as we have said, of fifteen

crowns, the horse, and the letter for M. de Tréville—the counsels being

thrown into the bargain.

With such a _vade mecum_ D’Artagnan was morally and physically an exact

copy of the hero of Cervantes, to whom we so happily compared him when

our duty of an historian placed us under the necessity of sketching his

portrait. Don Quixote took windmills for giants, and sheep for armies;

D’Artagnan took every smile for an insult, and every look as a

provocation—whence it resulted that from Tarbes to Meung his fist was

constantly doubled, or his hand on the hilt of his sword; and yet the

fist did not descend upon any jaw, nor did the sword issue from its

scabbard. It was not that the sight of the wretched pony did not excite

numerous smiles on the countenances of passers-by; but as against the

side of this pony rattled a sword of respectable length, and as over

this sword gleamed an eye rather ferocious than haughty, these

passers-by repressed their hilarity, or if hilarity prevailed over

prudence, they endeavored to laugh only on one side, like the masks of

the ancients. D’Artagnan, then, remained majestic and intact in his

susceptibility, till he came to this unlucky city of Meung.

But there, as he was alighting from his horse at the gate of the Jolly

Miller, without anyone—host, waiter, or hostler—coming to hold his

stirrup or take his horse, D’Artagnan spied, though an open window on

the ground floor, a gentleman, well-made and of good carriage, although

of rather a stern countenance, talking with two persons who appeared to

listen to him with respect. D’Artagnan fancied quite naturally,

according to his custom, that he must be the object of their

conversation, and listened. This time D’Artagnan was only in part

mistaken; he himself was not in question, but his horse was. The

gentleman appeared to be enumerating all his qualities to his auditors;

and, as I have said, the auditors seeming to have great deference for

the narrator, they every moment burst into fits of laughter. Now, as a

half-smile was sufficient to awaken the irascibility of the young man,

the effect produced upon him by this vociferous mirth may be easily

imagined.

Nevertheless, D’Artagnan was desirous of examining the appearance of

this impertinent personage who ridiculed him. He fixed his haughty eye

upon the stranger, and perceived a man of from forty to forty-five

years of age, with black and piercing eyes, pale complexion, a strongly

marked nose, and a black and well-shaped mustache. He was dressed in a

doublet and hose of a violet color, with aiguillettes of the same

color, without any other ornaments than the customary slashes, through

which the shirt appeared. This doublet and hose, though new, were

creased, like traveling clothes for a long time packed in a

portmanteau. D’Artagnan made all these remarks with the rapidity of a

most minute observer, and doubtless from an instinctive feeling that

this stranger was destined to have a great influence over his future

life.

Now, as at the moment in which D’Artagnan fixed his eyes upon the

gentleman in the violet doublet, the gentleman made one of his most

knowing and profound remarks respecting the Béarnese pony, his two

auditors laughed even louder than before, and he himself, though

contrary to his custom, allowed a pale smile (if I may be allowed to

use such an expression) to stray over his countenance. This time there

could be no doubt; D’Artagnan was really insulted. Full, then, of this

conviction, he pulled his cap down over his eyes, and endeavoring to

copy some of the court airs he had picked up in Gascony among young

traveling nobles, he advanced with one hand on the hilt of his sword

and the other resting on his hip. Unfortunately, as he advanced, his

anger increased at every step; and instead of the proper and lofty

speech he had prepared as a prelude to his challenge, he found nothing

at the tip of his tongue but a gross personality, which he accompanied

with a furious gesture.

“I say, sir, you sir, who are hiding yourself behind that shutter—yes,

you, sir, tell me what you are laughing at, and we will laugh

together!”

The gentleman raised his eyes slowly from the nag to his cavalier, as

if he required some time to ascertain whether it could be to him that

such strange reproaches were addressed; then, when he could not

possibly entertain any doubt of the matter, his eyebrows slightly bent,

and with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to be described,

he replied to D’Artagnan, “I was not speaking to you, sir.”

“But I am speaking to you!” replied the young man, additionally

exasperated with this mixture of insolence and good manners, of

politeness and scorn.

The stranger looked at him again with a slight smile, and retiring from

the window, came out of the hostelry with a slow step, and placed

himself before the horse, within two paces of D’Artagnan. His quiet

manner and the ironical expression of his countenance redoubled the

mirth of the persons with whom he had been talking, and who still

remained at the window.

D’Artagnan, seeing him approach, drew his sword a foot out of the

scabbard.

“This horse is decidedly, or rather has been in his youth, a

buttercup,” resumed the stranger, continuing the remarks he had begun,

and addressing himself to his auditors at the window, without paying

the least attention to the exasperation of D’Artagnan, who, however,

placed himself between him and them. “It is a color very well known in

botany, but till the present time very rare among horses.”

“There are people who laugh at the horse that would not dare to laugh

at the master,” cried the young emulator of the furious Tréville.

“I do not often laugh, sir,” replied the stranger, “as you may perceive

by the expression of my countenance; but nevertheless I retain the

privilege of laughing when I please.”

“And I,” cried D’Artagnan, “will allow no man to laugh when it

displeases me!”

“Indeed, sir,” continued the stranger, more calm than ever; “well, that

is perfectly right!” and turning on his heel, was about to re-enter the

hostelry by the front gate, beneath which D’Artagnan on arriving had

observed a saddled horse.

But, D’Artagnan was not of a character to allow a man to escape him

thus who had the insolence to ridicule him. He drew his sword entirely

from the scabbard, and followed him, crying, “Turn, turn, Master Joker,

lest I strike you behind!”

“Strike me!” said the other, turning on his heels, and surveying the

young man with as much astonishment as contempt. “Why, my good fellow,

you must be mad!” Then, in a suppressed tone, as if speaking to

himself, “This is annoying,” continued he. “What a godsend this would

be for his Majesty, who is seeking everywhere for brave fellows to

recruit for his Musketeers!”

He had scarcely finished, when D’Artagnan made such a furious lunge at

him that if he had not sprung nimbly backward, it is probable he would

have jested for the last time. The stranger, then perceiving that the

matter went beyond raillery, drew his sword, saluted his adversary, and

seriously placed himself on guard. But at the same moment, his two

auditors, accompanied by the host, fell upon D’Artagnan with sticks,

shovels and tongs. This caused so rapid and complete a diversion from

the attack that D’Artagnan’s adversary, while the latter turned round

to face this shower of blows, sheathed his sword with the same

precision, and instead of an actor, which he had nearly been, became a

spectator of the fight—a part in which he acquitted himself with his

usual impassiveness, muttering, nevertheless, “A plague upon these

Gascons! Replace him on his orange horse, and let him begone!”

“Not before I have killed you, poltroon!” cried D’Artagnan, making the

best face possible, and never retreating one step before his three

assailants, who continued to shower blows upon him.

“Another gasconade!” murmured the gentleman. “By my honor, these

Gascons are incorrigible! Keep up the dance, then, since he will have

it so. When he is tired, he will perhaps tell us that he has had enough

of it.”

But the stranger knew not the headstrong personage he had to do with;

D’Artagnan was not the man ever to cry for quarter. The fight was

therefore prolonged for some seconds; but at length D’Artagnan dropped

his sword, which was broken in two pieces by the blow of a stick.

Another blow full upon his forehead at the same moment brought him to

the ground, covered with blood and almost fainting.

It was at this moment that people came flocking to the scene of action

from all sides. The host, fearful of consequences, with the help of his

servants carried the wounded man into the kitchen, where some trifling

attentions were bestowed upon him.

As to the gentleman, he resumed his place at the window, and surveyed

the crowd with a certain impatience, evidently annoyed by their

remaining undispersed.

“Well, how is it with this madman?” exclaimed he, turning round as the

noise of the door announced the entrance of the host, who came in to

inquire if he was unhurt.

“Your Excellency is safe and sound?” asked the host.

“Oh, yes! Perfectly safe and sound, my good host; and I wish to know

what has become of our young man.”

“He is better,” said the host, “he fainted quite away.”

“Indeed!” said the gentleman.

“But before he fainted, he collected all his strength to challenge you,

and to defy you while challenging you.”

“Why, this fellow must be the devil in person!” cried the stranger.

“Oh, no, your Excellency, he is not the devil,” replied the host, with

a grin of contempt; “for during his fainting we rummaged his valise and

found nothing but a clean shirt and eleven crowns—which however, did

not prevent his saying, as he was fainting, that if such a thing had

happened in Paris, you should have cause to repent of it at a later

period.”

“Then,” said the stranger coolly, “he must be some prince in disguise.”

“I have told you this, good sir,” resumed the host, “in order that you

may be on your guard.”

“Did he name no one in his passion?”

“Yes; he struck his pocket and said, ‘We shall see what Monsieur de

Tréville will think of this insult offered to his _protégé_.’”

“Monsieur de Tréville?” said the stranger, becoming attentive, “he put

his hand upon his pocket while pronouncing the name of Monsieur de

Tréville? Now, my dear host, while your young man was insensible, you

did not fail, I am quite sure, to ascertain what that pocket contained.

What was there in it?”

“A letter addressed to Monsieur de Tréville, captain of the

Musketeers.”

“Indeed!”

“Exactly as I have the honor to tell your Excellency.”

The host, who was not endowed with great perspicacity, did not observe

the expression which his words had given to the physiognomy of the

stranger. The latter rose from the front of the window, upon the sill

of which he had leaned with his elbow, and knitted his brow like a man

disquieted.

“The devil!” murmured he, between his teeth. “Can Tréville have set

this Gascon upon me? He is very young; but a sword thrust is a sword

thrust, whatever be the age of him who gives it, and a youth is less to

be suspected than an older man,” and the stranger fell into a reverie

which lasted some minutes. “A weak obstacle is sometimes sufficient to

overthrow a great design.

“Host,” said he, “could you not contrive to get rid of this frantic boy

for me? In conscience, I cannot kill him; and yet,” added he, with a

coldly menacing expression, “he annoys me. Where is he?”

“In my wife’s chamber, on the first flight, where they are dressing his

wounds.”

“His things and his bag are with him? Has he taken off his doublet?”

“On the contrary, everything is in the kitchen. But if he annoys you,

this young fool—”

“To be sure he does. He causes a disturbance in your hostelry, which

respectable people cannot put up with. Go; make out my bill and notify

my servant.”

“What, monsieur, will you leave us so soon?”

“You know that very well, as I gave my order to saddle my horse. Have

they not obeyed me?”

“It is done; as your Excellency may have observed, your horse is in the

great gateway, ready saddled for your departure.”

“That is well; do as I have directed you, then.”

“What the devil!” said the host to himself. “Can he be afraid of this

boy?” But an imperious glance from the stranger stopped him short; he

bowed humbly and retired.

“It is not necessary for Milady* to be seen by this fellow,” continued

the stranger. “She will soon pass; she is already late. I had better

get on horseback, and go and meet her. I should like, however, to know

what this letter addressed to Tréville contains.” And the stranger,

muttering to himself, directed his steps toward the kitchen.

* We are well aware that this term, milady, is only properly used when

followed by a family name. But we find it thus in the manuscript, and

we do not choose to take upon ourselves to alter it.

In the meantime, the host, who entertained no doubt that it was the

presence of the young man that drove the stranger from his hostelry,

re-ascended to his wife’s chamber, and found D’Artagnan just recovering

his senses. Giving him to understand that the police would deal with

him pretty severely for having sought a quarrel with a great lord—for

in the opinion of the host the stranger could be nothing less than a

great lord—he insisted that notwithstanding his weakness D’Artagnan

should get up and depart as quickly as possible. D’Artagnan, half

stupefied, without his doublet, and with his head bound up in a linen

cloth, arose then, and urged by the host, began to descend the stairs;

but on arriving at the kitchen, the first thing he saw was his

antagonist talking calmly at the step of a heavy carriage, drawn by two

large Norman horses.

His interlocutor, whose head appeared through the carriage window, was

a woman of from twenty to two-and-twenty years. We have already

observed with what rapidity D’Artagnan seized the expression of a

countenance. He perceived then, at a glance, that this woman was young

and beautiful; and her style of beauty struck him more forcibly from

its being totally different from that of the southern countries in

which D’Artagnan had hitherto resided. She was pale and fair, with long

curls falling in profusion over her shoulders, had large, blue,

languishing eyes, rosy lips, and hands of alabaster. She was talking

with great animation with the stranger.

“His Eminence, then, orders me—” said the lady.

“To return instantly to England, and to inform him as soon as the duke

leaves London.”

“And as to my other instructions?” asked the fair traveler.

“They are contained in this box, which you will not open until you are

on the other side of the Channel.”

“Very well; and you—what will you do?”

“I—I return to Paris.”

“What, without chastising this insolent boy?” asked the lady.

The stranger was about to reply; but at the moment he opened his mouth,

D’Artagnan, who had heard all, precipitated himself over the threshold

of the door.

“This insolent boy chastises others,” cried he; “and I hope that this

time he whom he ought to chastise will not escape him as before.”

“Will not escape him?” replied the stranger, knitting his brow.

“No; before a woman you would dare not fly, I presume?”

“Remember,” said Milady, seeing the stranger lay his hand on his sword,

“the least delay may ruin everything.”

“You are right,” cried the gentleman; “begone then, on your part, and I

will depart as quickly on mine.” And bowing to the lady, he sprang into

his saddle, while her coachman applied his whip vigorously to his

horses. The two interlocutors thus separated, taking opposite

directions, at full gallop.

“Pay him, booby!” cried the stranger to his servant, without checking

the speed of his horse; and the man, after throwing two or three silver

pieces at the foot of mine host, galloped after his master.

“Base coward! false gentleman!” cried D’Artagnan, springing forward, in

his turn, after the servant. But his wound had rendered him too weak to

support such an exertion. Scarcely had he gone ten steps when his ears

began to tingle, a faintness seized him, a cloud of blood passed over

his eyes, and he fell in the middle of the street, crying still,

“Coward! coward! coward!”

“He is a coward, indeed,” grumbled the host, drawing near to

D’Artagnan, and endeavoring by this little flattery to make up matters

with the young man, as the heron of the fable did with the snail he had

despised the evening before.

“Yes, a base coward,” murmured D’Artagnan; “but she—she was very

beautiful.”

“What _she?_” demanded the host.

“Milady,” faltered D’Artagnan, and fainted a second time.

“Ah, it’s all one,” said the host; “I have lost two customers, but this

one remains, of whom I am pretty certain for some days to come. There

will be eleven crowns gained.”

It is to be remembered that eleven crowns was just the sum that

remained in D’Artagnan’s purse.

The host had reckoned upon eleven days of confinement at a crown a day,

but he had reckoned without his guest. On the following morning at five

o’clock D’Artagnan arose, and descending to the kitchen without help,

asked, among other ingredients the list of which has not come down to

us, for some oil, some wine, and some rosemary, and with his mother’s

recipe in his hand composed a balsam, with which he anointed his

numerous wounds, replacing his bandages himself, and positively

refusing the assistance of any doctor, D’Artagnan walked about that

same evening, and was almost cured by the morrow.

But when the time came to pay for his rosemary, this oil, and the wine,

the only expense the master had incurred, as he had preserved a strict

abstinence—while on the contrary, the yellow horse, by the account of

the hostler at least, had eaten three times as much as a horse of his

size could reasonably be supposed to have done—D’Artagnan found nothing

in his pocket but his little old velvet purse with the eleven crowns it

contained; for as to the letter addressed to M. de Tréville, it had

disappeared.

The young man commenced his search for the letter with the greatest

patience, turning out his pockets of all kinds over and over again,

rummaging and rerummaging in his valise, and opening and reopening his

purse; but when he found that he had come to the conviction that the

letter was not to be found, he flew, for the third time, into such a

rage as was near costing him a fresh consumption of wine, oil, and

rosemary—for upon seeing this hot-headed youth become exasperated and

threaten to destroy everything in the establishment if his letter were

not found, the host seized a spit, his wife a broom handle, and the

servants the same sticks they had used the day before.

“My letter of recommendation!” cried D’Artagnan, “my letter of

recommendation! or, the holy blood, I will spit you all like ortolans!”

Unfortunately, there was one circumstance which created a powerful

obstacle to the accomplishment of this threat; which was, as we have

related, that his sword had been in his first conflict broken in two,

and which he had entirely forgotten. Hence, it resulted when D’Artagnan

proceeded to draw his sword in earnest, he found himself purely and

simply armed with a stump of a sword about eight or ten inches in

length, which the host had carefully placed in the scabbard. As to the

rest of the blade, the master had slyly put that on one side to make

himself a larding pin.

But this deception would probably not have stopped our fiery young man

if the host had not reflected that the reclamation which his guest made

was perfectly just.

“But, after all,” said he, lowering the point of his spit, “where is

this letter?”

“Yes, where is this letter?” cried D’Artagnan. “In the first place, I

warn you that that letter is for Monsieur de Tréville, and it must be

found, or if it is not found, he will know how to find it.”

His threat completed the intimidation of the host. After the king and

the cardinal, M. de Tréville was the man whose name was perhaps most

frequently repeated by the military, and even by citizens. There was,

to be sure, Father Joseph, but his name was never pronounced but with a

subdued voice, such was the terror inspired by his Gray Eminence, as

the cardinal’s familiar was called.

Throwing down his spit, and ordering his wife to do the same with her

broom handle, and the servants with their sticks, he set the first

example of commencing an earnest search for the lost letter.

“Does the letter contain anything valuable?” demanded the host, after a

few minutes of useless investigation.

“Zounds! I think it does indeed!” cried the Gascon, who reckoned upon

this letter for making his way at court. “It contained my fortune!”

“Bills upon Spain?” asked the disturbed host.

“Bills upon his Majesty’s private treasury,” answered D’Artagnan, who,

reckoning upon entering into the king’s service in consequence of this

recommendation, believed he could make this somewhat hazardous reply

without telling of a falsehood.

“The devil!” cried the host, at his wits’ end.

“But it’s of no importance,” continued D’Artagnan, with natural

assurance; “it’s of no importance. The money is nothing; that letter

was everything. I would rather have lost a thousand pistoles than have

lost it.” He would not have risked more if he had said twenty thousand;

but a certain juvenile modesty restrained him.

A ray of light all at once broke upon the mind of the host as he was

giving himself to the devil upon finding nothing.

“That letter is not lost!” cried he.

“What!” cried D’Artagnan.

“No, it has been stolen from you.”

“Stolen? By whom?”

“By the gentleman who was here yesterday. He came down into the

kitchen, where your doublet was. He remained there some time alone. I

would lay a wager he has stolen it.”

“Do you think so?” answered D’Artagnan, but little convinced, as he

knew better than anyone else how entirely personal the value of this

letter was, and saw nothing in it likely to tempt cupidity. The fact

was that none of his servants, none of the travelers present, could

have gained anything by being possessed of this paper.

“Do you say,” resumed D’Artagnan, “that you suspect that impertinent

gentleman?”

“I tell you I am sure of it,” continued the host. “When I informed him

that your lordship was the _protégé_ of Monsieur de Tréville, and that

you even had a letter for that illustrious gentleman, he appeared to be

very much disturbed, and asked me where that letter was, and

immediately came down into the kitchen, where he knew your doublet

was.”

“Then that’s my thief,” replied D’Artagnan. “I will complain to

Monsieur de Tréville, and Monsieur de Tréville will complain to the

king.” He then drew two crowns majestically from his purse and gave

them to the host, who accompanied him, cap in hand, to the gate, and

remounted his yellow horse, which bore him without any further accident

to the gate of St. Antoine at Paris, where his owner sold him for three

crowns, which was a very good price, considering that D’Artagnan had

ridden him hard during the last stage. Thus the dealer to whom

D’Artagnan sold him for the nine livres did not conceal from the young

man that he only gave that enormous sum for him on the account of the

originality of his color.

Thus D’Artagnan entered Paris on foot, carrying his little packet under

his arm, and walked about till he found an apartment to be let on terms

suited to the scantiness of his means. This chamber was a sort of

garret, situated in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, near the Luxembourg.

As soon as the earnest money was paid, D’Artagnan took possession of

his lodging, and passed the remainder of the day in sewing onto his

doublet and hose some ornamental braiding which his mother had taken

off an almost-new doublet of the elder M. d’Artagnan, and which she had

given her son secretly. Next he went to the Quai de Feraille to have a

new blade put to his sword, and then returned toward the Louvre,

inquiring of the first Musketeer he met for the situation of the hôtel

of M. de Tréville, which proved to be in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier;

that is to say, in the immediate vicinity of the chamber hired by

D’Artagnan—a circumstance which appeared to furnish a happy augury for

the success of his journey.

After this, satisfied with the way in which he had conducted himself at

Meung, without remorse for the past, confident in the present, and full

of hope for the future, he retired to bed and slept the sleep of the

brave.

This sleep, provincial as it was, brought him to nine o’clock in the

morning; at which hour he rose, in order to repair to the residence of

M. de Tréville, the third personage in the kingdom, in the paternal

estimation.