Kabanata Kabanata 7 · Chapter VII. THE INTERIOR OF THE MUSKETEERS

. Chapter VII. THE INTERIOR OF THE MUSKETEERS

When D’Artagnan was out of the Louvre, and consulted his friends upon

the use he had best make of his share of the forty pistoles, Athos

advised him to order a good repast at the Pomme-de-Pin, Porthos to

engage a lackey, and Aramis to provide himself with a suitable

mistress.

The repast was carried into effect that very day, and the lackey waited

at table. The repast had been ordered by Athos, and the lackey

furnished by Porthos. He was a Picard, whom the glorious Musketeer had

picked up on the Bridge Tournelle, making rings and plashing in the

water.

Porthos pretended that this occupation was proof of a reflective and

contemplative organization, and he had brought him away without any

other recommendation. The noble carriage of this gentleman, for whom he

believed himself to be engaged, had won Planchet—that was the name of

the Picard. He felt a slight disappointment, however, when he saw that

this place was already taken by a compeer named Mousqueton, and when

Porthos signified to him that the state of his household, though great,

would not support two servants, and that he must enter into the service

of D’Artagnan. Nevertheless, when he waited at the dinner given by his

master, and saw him take out a handful of gold to pay for it, he

believed his fortune made, and returned thanks to heaven for having

thrown him into the service of such a Crœsus. He preserved this

opinion even after the feast, with the remnants of which he repaired

his own long abstinence; but when in the evening he made his master’s

bed, the chimeras of Planchet faded away. The bed was the only one in

the apartment, which consisted of an antechamber and a bedroom.

Planchet slept in the antechamber upon a coverlet taken from the bed of

D’Artagnan, and which D’Artagnan from that time made shift to do

without.

Athos, on his part, had a valet whom he had trained in his service in a

thoroughly peculiar fashion, and who was named Grimaud. He was very

taciturn, this worthy signor. Be it understood we are speaking of

Athos. During the five or six years that he had lived in the strictest

intimacy with his companions, Porthos and Aramis, they could remember

having often seen him smile, but had never heard him laugh. His words

were brief and expressive, conveying all that was meant, and no more;

no embellishments, no embroidery, no arabesques. His conversation was a

matter of fact, without a single romance.

Although Athos was scarcely thirty years old, and was of great personal

beauty and intelligence of mind, no one knew whether he had ever had a

mistress. He never spoke of women. He certainly did not prevent others

from speaking of them before him, although it was easy to perceive that

this kind of conversation, in which he only mingled by bitter words and

misanthropic remarks, was very disagreeable to him. His reserve, his

roughness, and his silence made almost an old man of him. He had, then,

in order not to disturb his habits, accustomed Grimaud to obey him upon

a simple gesture or upon a simple movement of his lips. He never spoke

to him, except under the most extraordinary occasions.

Sometimes, Grimaud, who feared his master as he did fire, while

entertaining a strong attachment to his person and a great veneration

for his talents, believed he perfectly understood what he wanted, flew

to execute the order received, and did precisely the contrary. Athos

then shrugged his shoulders, and, without putting himself in a passion,

thrashed Grimaud. On these days he spoke a little.

Porthos, as we have seen, had a character exactly opposite to that of

Athos. He not only talked much, but he talked loudly, little caring, we

must render him that justice, whether anybody listened to him or not.

He talked for the pleasure of talking and for the pleasure of hearing

himself talk. He spoke upon all subjects except the sciences, alleging

in this respect the inveterate hatred he had borne to scholars from his

childhood. He had not so noble an air as Athos, and the commencement of

their intimacy often rendered him unjust toward that gentleman, whom he

endeavored to eclipse by his splendid dress. But with his simple

Musketeer’s uniform and nothing but the manner in which he threw back

his head and advanced his foot, Athos instantly took the place which

was his due and consigned the ostentatious Porthos to the second rank.

Porthos consoled himself by filling the antechamber of M. de Tréville

and the guardroom of the Louvre with the accounts of his love scrapes,

after having passed from professional ladies to military ladies, from

the lawyer’s dame to the baroness, there was question of nothing less

with Porthos than a foreign princess, who was enormously fond of him.

An old proverb says, “Like master, like man.” Let us pass, then, from

the valet of Athos to the valet of Porthos, from Grimaud to Mousqueton.

Mousqueton was a Norman, whose pacific name of Boniface his master had

changed into the infinitely more sonorous name of Mousqueton. He had

entered the service of Porthos upon condition that he should only be

clothed and lodged, though in a handsome manner; but he claimed two

hours a day to himself, consecrated to an employment which would

provide for his other wants. Porthos agreed to the bargain; the thing

suited him wonderfully well. He had doublets cut out of his old clothes

and cast-off cloaks for Mousqueton, and thanks to a very intelligent

tailor, who made his clothes look as good as new by turning them, and

whose wife was suspected of wishing to make Porthos descend from his

aristocratic habits, Mousqueton made a very good figure when attending

on his master.

As for Aramis, of whom we believe we have sufficiently explained the

character—a character which, like that of his companions, we shall be

able to follow in its development—his lackey was called Bazin. Thanks

to the hopes which his master entertained of someday entering into

orders, he was always clothed in black, as became the servant of a

churchman. He was a Berrichon, thirty-five or forty years old, mild,

peaceable, sleek, employing the leisure his master left him in the

perusal of pious works, providing rigorously for two a dinner of few

dishes, but excellent. For the rest, he was dumb, blind, and deaf, and

of unimpeachable fidelity.

And now that we are acquainted, superficially at least, with the

masters and the valets, let us pass on to the dwellings occupied by

each of them.

Athos dwelt in the Rue Férou, within two steps of the Luxembourg. His

apartment consisted of two small chambers, very nicely fitted up, in a

furnished house, the hostess of which, still young and still really

handsome, cast tender glances uselessly at him. Some fragments of past

splendor appeared here and there upon the walls of this modest lodging;

a sword, for example, richly embossed, which belonged by its make to

the times of Francis I, the hilt of which alone, encrusted with

precious stones, might be worth two hundred pistoles, and which,

nevertheless, in his moments of greatest distress Athos had never

pledged or offered for sale. It had long been an object of ambition for

Porthos. Porthos would have given ten years of his life to possess this

sword.

One day, when he had an appointment with a duchess, he endeavored even

to borrow it of Athos. Athos, without saying anything, emptied his

pockets, got together all his jewels, purses, aiguillettes, and gold

chains, and offered them all to Porthos; but as to the sword, he said

it was sealed to its place and should never quit it until its master

should himself quit his lodgings. In addition to the sword, there was a

portrait representing a nobleman of the time of Henry III., dressed with

the greatest elegance, and who wore the Order of the Holy Ghost; and

this portrait had certain resemblances of lines with Athos, certain

family likenesses which indicated that this great noble, a knight of

the Order of the King, was his ancestor.

Besides these, a casket of magnificent goldwork, with the same arms as

the sword and the portrait, formed a middle ornament to the

mantelpiece, and assorted badly with the rest of the furniture. Athos

always carried the key of this coffer about him; but he one day opened

it before Porthos, and Porthos was convinced that this coffer contained

nothing but letters and papers—love letters and family papers, no

doubt.

Porthos lived in an apartment, large in size and of very sumptuous

appearance, in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier. Every time he passed with a

friend before his windows, at one of which Mousqueton was sure to be

placed in full livery, Porthos raised his head and his hand, and said,

“That is my abode!” But he was never to be found at home; he never

invited anybody to go up with him, and no one could form an idea of

what his sumptuous apartment contained in the shape of real riches.

As to Aramis, he dwelt in a little lodging composed of a boudoir, an

eating room, and a bedroom, which room, situated, as the others were,

on the ground floor, looked out upon a little fresh green garden, shady

and impenetrable to the eyes of his neighbors.

With regard to D’Artagnan, we know how he was lodged, and we have

already made acquaintance with his lackey, Master Planchet.

D’Artagnan, who was by nature very curious—as people generally are who

possess the genius of intrigue—did all he could to make out who Athos,

Porthos, and Aramis really were (for under these pseudonyms each of

these young men concealed his family name)—Athos in particular, who, a

league away, savored of nobility. He addressed himself then to Porthos

to gain information respecting Athos and Aramis, and to Aramis in order

to learn something of Porthos.

Unfortunately Porthos knew nothing of the life of his silent companion

but what revealed itself. It was said Athos had met with great crosses

in love, and that a frightful treachery had forever poisoned the life

of this gallant man. What could this treachery be? All the world was

ignorant of it.

As to Porthos, except his real name (as was the case with those of his

two comrades), his life was very easily known. Vain and indiscreet, it

was as easy to see through him as through a crystal. The only thing to

mislead the investigator would have been belief in all the good things

he said of himself.

With respect to Aramis, though having the air of having nothing secret

about him, he was a young fellow made up of mysteries, answering little

to questions put to him about others, and having learned from him the

report which prevailed concerning the success of the Musketeer with a

princess, wished to gain a little insight into the amorous adventures

of his interlocutor. “And you, my dear companion,” said he, “you speak

of the baronesses, countesses, and princesses of others?”

“_Pardieu!_ I spoke of them because Porthos talked of them himself,

because he had paraded all these fine things before me. But be assured,

my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, that if I had obtained them from any other

source, or if they had been confided to me, there exists no confessor

more discreet than myself.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” replied D’Artagnan; “but it seems to me that

you are tolerably familiar with coats of arms—a certain embroidered

handkerchief, for instance, to which I owe the honor of your

acquaintance?”

This time Aramis was not angry, but assumed the most modest air and

replied in a friendly tone, “My dear friend, do not forget that I wish

to belong to the Church, and that I avoid all mundane opportunities.

The handkerchief you saw had not been given to me, but it had been

forgotten and left at my house by one of my friends. I was obliged to

pick it up in order not to compromise him and the lady he loves. As for

myself, I neither have, nor desire to have, a mistress, following in

that respect the very judicious example of Athos, who has none any more

than I have.”

“But what the devil! You are not a priest, you are a Musketeer!”

“A Musketeer for a time, my friend, as the cardinal says, a Musketeer

against my will, but a churchman at heart, believe me. Athos and

Porthos dragged me into this to occupy me. I had, at the moment of

being ordained, a little difficulty with—But that would not interest

you, and I am taking up your valuable time.”

“Not at all; it interests me very much,” cried D’Artagnan; “and at this

moment I have absolutely nothing to do.”

“Yes, but I have my breviary to repeat,” answered Aramis; “then some

verses to compose, which Madame d’Aiguillon begged of me. Then I must

go to the Rue St. Honoré in order to purchase some rouge for Madame de

Chevreuse. So you see, my dear friend, that if you are not in a hurry,

I am very much in a hurry.”

Aramis held out his hand in a cordial manner to his young companion,

and took leave of him.

Notwithstanding all the pains he took, D’Artagnan was unable to learn

any more concerning his three new-made friends. He formed, therefore,

the resolution of believing for the present all that was said of their

past, hoping for more certain and extended revelations in the future.

In the meanwhile, he looked upon Athos as an Achilles, Porthos as an

Ajax, and Aramis as a Joseph.

As to the rest, the life of the four young friends was joyous enough.

Athos played, and that as a rule unfortunately. Nevertheless, he never

borrowed a sou of his companions, although his purse was ever at their

service; and when he had played upon honor, he always awakened his

creditor by six o’clock the next morning to pay the debt of the

preceding evening.

Porthos had his fits. On the days when he won he was insolent and

ostentatious; if he lost, he disappeared completely for several days,

after which he reappeared with a pale face and thinner person, but with

money in his purse.

As to Aramis, he never played. He was the worst Musketeer and the most

unconvivial companion imaginable. He had always something or other to

do. Sometimes in the midst of dinner, when everyone, under the

attraction of wine and in the warmth of conversation, believed they had

two or three hours longer to enjoy themselves at table, Aramis looked

at his watch, arose with a bland smile, and took leave of the company,

to go, as he said, to consult a casuist with whom he had an

appointment. At other times he would return home to write a treatise,

and requested his friends not to disturb him.

At this Athos would smile, with his charming, melancholy smile, which

so became his noble countenance, and Porthos would drink, swearing that

Aramis would never be anything but a village _curé_.

Planchet, D’Artagnan’s valet, supported his good fortune nobly. He

received thirty sous per day, and for a month he returned to his

lodgings gay as a chaffinch, and affable toward his master. When the

wind of adversity began to blow upon the housekeeping of the Rue des

Fossoyeurs—that is to say, when the forty pistoles of King Louis XIII.

were consumed or nearly so—he commenced complaints which Athos thought

nauseous, Porthos indecent, and Aramis ridiculous. Athos counseled

D’Artagnan to dismiss the fellow; Porthos was of the opinion that he

should give him a good thrashing first; and Aramis contended that a

master should never attend to anything but the civilities paid to him.

“This is all very easy for you to say,” replied D’Artagnan, “for you,

Athos, who live like a dumb man with Grimaud, who forbid him to speak,

and consequently never exchange ill words with him; for you, Porthos,

who carry matters in such a magnificent style, and are a god to your

valet, Mousqueton; and for you, Aramis, who, always abstracted by your

theological studies, inspire your servant, Bazin, a mild, religious

man, with a profound respect; but for me, who am without any settled

means and without resources—for me, who am neither a Musketeer nor even

a Guardsman, what am I to do to inspire either the affection, the

terror, or the respect in Planchet?”

“This is serious,” answered the three friends; “it is a family affair.

It is with valets as with wives, they must be placed at once upon the

footing in which you wish them to remain. Reflect upon it.”

D’Artagnan did reflect, and resolved to thrash Planchet provisionally;

which he did with the conscientiousness that D’Artagnan carried into

everything. After having well beaten him, he forbade him to leave his

service without his permission. “For,” added he, “the future cannot

fail to mend; I inevitably look for better times. Your fortune is

therefore made if you remain with me, and I am too good a master to

allow you to miss such a chance by granting you the dismissal you

require.”

This manner of acting roused much respect for D’Artagnan’s policy among

the Musketeers. Planchet was equally seized with admiration, and said

no more about going away.

The life of the four young men had become fraternal. D’Artagnan, who

had no settled habits of his own, as he came from his province into the

midst of a world quite new to him, fell easily into the habits of his

friends.

They rose about eight o’clock in the winter, about six in summer, and

went to take the countersign and see how things went on at M. de

Tréville’s. D’Artagnan, although he was not a Musketeer, performed the

duty of one with remarkable punctuality. He went on guard because he

always kept company with whoever of his friends was on duty. He was

well known at the Hôtel of the Musketeers, where everyone considered

him a good comrade. M. de Tréville, who had appreciated him at the

first glance and who bore him a real affection, never ceased

recommending him to the king.

On their side, the three Musketeers were much attached to their young

comrade. The friendship which united these four men, and the need they

felt of seeing another three or four times a day, whether for dueling,

business, or pleasure, caused them to be continually running after one

another like shadows; and the Inseparables were constantly to be met

with seeking one another, from the Luxembourg to the Place St. Sulpice,

or from the Rue du Vieux-Colombier to the Luxembourg.

In the meanwhile the promises of M. de Tréville went on prosperously.

One fine morning the king commanded M. de Chevalier Dessessart to admit

D’Artagnan as a cadet in his company of Guards. D’Artagnan, with a

sigh, donned his uniform, which he would have exchanged for that of a

Musketeer at the expense of ten years of his existence. But M. de

Tréville promised this favor after a novitiate of two years—a novitiate

which might besides be abridged if an opportunity should present itself

for D’Artagnan to render the king any signal service, or to distinguish

himself by some brilliant action. Upon this promise D’Artagnan

withdrew, and the next day he began service.

Then it became the turn of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to mount guard

with D’Artagnan when he was on duty. The company of M. le Chevalier

Dessessart thus received four instead of one when it admitted

D’Artagnan.